


Only Dark Listening To Dark

by lecterisms



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (very slow burn), Additional Tags May Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Frottage, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hannibal is Hannibal, Longing, M/M, Necromancy, Oral Sex, Pining, Slow Burn, Starcrossed Lovers, Team Sassy Science (Hannibal), Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Vampires, blood bonding, graphic description of autopsies, graphic description of loss of family members (mains), gratuitous mix and match of vampire canon and lore to suit author's purposes, lots of blood, now with fanart in chapter 15 :D, very vague witchery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2019-10-24 17:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 140,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecterisms/pseuds/lecterisms
Summary: Will Graham raises the dead for a living to delve into their pasts, while studiously avoiding his own. Then the FBI catches wind of his particular abilities and comes calling, bringing with them the monsters that have been haunting his nightmares since childhood and a man who seems strangely determined to keep Will from facing those monsters alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, this started out as a halloween one-shot for vampirehannibalfest, then grew into my (very first!) nanowrimo fic. enormous thanks to my nano baes [theheartbelieves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartbelieves/works), [shiphitsthefan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/works), and [murdergatsby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdergatsby/pseuds/murdergatsby) for cheering me on because I was 99% sure I would about quit ten words in.
> 
> updates every other friday 
> 
> title borrowed from a poem called moonset by carl sandburg
> 
> now with fanart in [chapter 15](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708783/chapters/44772082) (spoilers!) by my darling [beatricenius](https://twitter.com/beatricenius)!

The evening is quiet, only the whisper of the wind through mostly bare tree branches breaking the silence that has settled since the sun began to wane. The few leaves that remain on the trees, long since gone brown and crunchy, rattle together like bones when the wind picks up, piercingly cold. The quickly darkening sky brings with it the promise of a storm on the horizon, that will soon blanket the ground with the first freshly fallen snow of the season. But for now, at least, it’s only freezing cold, and quiet. Too quiet.

It is, the man considers, positively eerie, which he supposes is fitting; both for his current locale and the current date.

He crosses his arms over his chest, then uncrosses them long enough to rub his bare hands together for warmth and then stamp some heat back into his cold feet, before crossing them once more. Huffing under his breath, he curses the circumstances—some of which just transpired earlier that day, others having conspired against him since birth—that have brought him to stand in a cemetery that night, beside a freshly opened grave.

On fucking _Halloween_ , no less.

He sighs, checks his watch, and sighs again, louder this time. Glances to his left, to the casket that has not yet been lowered into the earth. “Your son is late,” he tells the corpse that lies within, mostly to break the silence that presses in around him.

The dead man, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer. Not yet, anyway.

Will Graham sighs again for good measure.

A few more minutes pass, in the only company he can stand for long, during which he pulls a flask from his coat’s inner pocket and takes a long, slow drink. The cheap whiskey warms him ever so slightly, not only from the burn seeping through his veins after, but from the familiarity of it; it is, after all, the only friend he brought with him when he fled New Orleans.

He’s saved from his thoughts taking an unpleasant turn by the sound of a car, moving slowly through the narrow road that winds through the tall headstones. An SUV—dark, nondescript—slowly rolls to a stop nearby, and Will caps and shoves his flask back into his pocket and adjusts his glasses just so as a man—near in age to Will himself but taller with dark, short, curly hair—kills the engine and hops down from inside.

Will casts a glance at the headstone beside him, rereading the inscription, before turning his head (but not his eyes) towards the man who approaches.

“Mr. Wilkins?”

The other man narrows his eyes momentarily and then nods, reaching up to run a hand through his hair before extending it for Will to shake. “Yeah, uh, Brian is fine,” the man—Brian—responds, still holding out his hand expectantly. Will stares at it for a long moment, before taking it to shake, only once and then letting go. He watches as Will takes a step back, shoving his hand back into the pocket of his coat, his eyes now downcast towards the ground. “You must be Will Graham,” he says finally.

Will only just keeps himself from rolling his eyes and saying something rude, because why else would he be hanging out in a graveyard this time of night?

_Oh,_ he thinks, _it is Halloween, I guess_.

Instead, he nods his head, turning his eyes back to the grave that brings them both to where they find themselves. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he manages, chancing a glance up at the man.

“What?” Brian replies, his brow furrowing, before relaxing again with realization as he adds hastily, “Oh. Thanks, man. Can we get this show on the road? It’s freezing.”

Will watches him for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed in thought. In his particular line of work, he’s seen grieving relatives, and he’s seen the kind of feigned nonchalance of someone hovering by a body that they created. This man is neither; not a son devastated by the untimely loss of his father, nor hiding giddiness over an inheritance he couldn’t wait to come to him naturally. Instead, Will notes that he seems far more interested in Will, having not once even glanced at the casket waiting to be opened nearby.

It is peculiar, Will thinks, but reminds himself that it’s no longer his job to figure the man—or what he’s up to, both past and present—out. He clears his throat, jerks his chin towards the grave, and asks brusquely, “Shall we?”

Brian nods, and Will turns towards the grave. The funeral was earlier in the day, and once they’re done here, the cemetery’s maintenance crew will come along to lower the casket into the vault, and cover it with dirt. But for now, the casket and the man in it sit atop the grave, and with one last glance in the other man’s direction, Will reaches out to open the lid.

Inside, an older man lies in what was no doubt his best suit, his hands joined over his chest and a rosary wound through his fingers. Cast only in the waning light of the setting sun, he doesn’t look nearly as pale as Will knows he truly must be, but his skin still holds the waxy, unnatural pallor of the recently deceased after being worked over by a well-meaning mortician. Nevertheless, the person did a good enough job, since the man—middle aged, slightly paunchy, gray around the temples and lined in the face—looks like he’s resting peacefully. A heart attack, Will had been told over the phone when Brian Wilkins contacted him; unexpected, since the man had been in decent health. Married, three grown children and a golden retriever and a happy life that part of Will longs for, while the other part of him whispers that family has always been and always will be like an ill-fitting suit.

“So how exactly do you do...whatever it is that you do?”

Lost in his thoughts, Will startles at the question that comes much closer to him than he’s even remotely comfortable with, and in his surprise glances up at the man who now stands beside him, meeting his eyes squarely for a moment. Mr. Wilkins the younger is staring at him, not at his dead father, with an inquisitive expression that only furthers Will’s already extreme discomfort.

“I, uh...” he starts, wetting his lips and quickly averting his gaze to the dead man, “It’s not something I can really explain.”

This is, of course, a lie. There is a rather easy explanation for what it is he does, he knows; in fact, it can be summed up into a nice, neat little one-word package.

_Necromancy_.

He prefers not to say the word aloud, though, due to the connotations. No matter how the times may have changed, it wasn’t that long ago that his kind—not exactly, but close enough that it wouldn’t matter—were burned at the stake.

Brian seems ready to press him, but then decides against it. Relieved, Will reaches up to move his glasses, before asking in a curt tone he can’t quite seem to help, “What is it exactly that you need to know?” When the other man doesn’t answer as quickly as Will would prefer, he clears his throat, looking to the ground as he offers, “I can’t wake him for long, and usually only the once, and it’s better that I know exactly what to ask rather than running out of time.”

The other man considers this, and then nods his head in understanding. “He had a pocket watch,” Brian explains, “It was my grandfather’s or something, I don’t know. My brother wants it, but I’m the oldest and I’m pretty sure he meant for it to go to me.” He pauses long enough to look at Will with a wry smile, shrugging one shoulder as he adds, “You know how it is.”

Will _doesn’t_ know how it is, and he’s relatively sure that this shows plainly on his face, if the other man’s answering expression is anything to go by. He reminds himself, again, that the hows and whys aren’t his job anymore, no matter how stupid and trivial they might seem.

He sighs. “So, you want to know who he wants to have...a watch,” Will says slowly, and pointedly doesn’t add the clearly unspoken _badly enough to raise the freaking dead._

Brian Wilkins clearly doesn’t find this as preposterous as he does, since he merely raises his dark eyebrows and then says simply, “Yeah.”

Will doesn’t roll his eyes in exasperation, but it’s a near thing. Instead he nods, and turns back to the casket. “Please go stand by your car,” he instructs, wincing a little at his lack of social graces as always, never quite as nice as he should be to the grieving but all the same unable to help it. Thankfully Brian doesn’t argue, and Will listens to the sound of his shoes crunching the brittle brown grass as he walks away, leaving him alone with the dead man.

It has been, as long as he can remember, his preferred company.

He’s used to the slight tremble in his hands when he reaches out, settling them against the lip of the casket, feeling the smooth wood beneath his palms and the silky, cream-colored lining against his fingertips as he spreads them through the folds of fabric. His still-breathing companion has fallen silent, several yards away and far enough out of earshot, and it’s easy enough for Will to tune his presence out completely, and turn his mind inward.

There, he finds what he always does. A little excitement, a little trepidation; never knowing what to expect with these things. Beneath that, an ever-present sense of loathing, left there from hearing his father say things when he was at his worst about Will—unnatural, _wrong—_ and further beneath _that_ , he can feel the quiet sense of power that simmers beneath his skin. Watching, waiting to be called forth.

Will sinks further into himself, feeling the flutter of that power like fingertips drug lightly across the smooth surface of dark, still water. The resulting ripples feel at first like nothing more than the charge in the air just before lightening strikes, growing stronger and stronger still until the ripples feel more like waves, and then something more solid that he can wrap his mind’s fingers around and pull to the surface. Then it’s _there_ , crackling beneath his skin and in his eyes. It’s thrilling and terrifying, and Will simultaneously wonders why he can’t feel like this always, and knows why he must _not_.

It takes a moment’s concentration to force one hand to release the edge of the casket, and he stares down it for a moment, watching the way bone moves under skin with no outward sign of what power lies beneath. Then, he raises his hand, and ever so gently presses his palm to the dead man’s pale cheek.

Will’s breath leaves him in a shaky hiss as the power he’s called forth so quickly and suddenly leaves him, flowing into the corpse he touches. Almost as if the breath itself has been repurposed, the man in the casket sucks in air in a sharp, painful-sounding wheeze, opens his eyes, and promptly begins to _scream_.

“Mr. Wilkins,” Will says, dropping his hand to touch the dead man’s shoulder, which only serves to cause milky-white eyes to dart his way, and turn the screams in his direction. “ _Mr. Wilkins!”_ he tries again, shouting to be heard over the recently revived man’s wailing, his breaths coming in pants as he steps back enough to be clear as the man sits up suddenly. The movement dislodges a shockingly bad toupee, which falls out of the casket completely and to the ground where it sits at Will’s feet, looking like—Will’s slightly hysterical brain is glad to supply—one of the long-haired guinea pigs he once saw in a pet store as a child.

Shaking his head to regain control over his thoughts, Will tries once again. “Mr. Wilkins, my name is Will Graham,” he says, raising his voice a little higher to be heard as he tries to make his usual speech over the dead man’s screaming, and despite the painful tightening in his chest and the shooting pain down his arm. He’s used to that, though; feeling whatever the corpse was feeling in the moment that they died, but knowing it’s a phantom pain doesn’t make it any easier to bear. He swallows thickly, and begins again.“I regret to inform you that you are, unfortunately, dead—”

“ _What_?” the man gasps out, his voice somewhat garbled and gravelly in a way that it most likely wasn’t in life—although this corpse is fresh, certainly fresher than some Will has raised, decay comes quickly and is a hell of a thing.

At least he’s no longer screaming, although he heaves great breaths, not yet realizing that he no longer needs them. Will is already trembling with the exertion to keep the body animated, and he doesn’t plan to keep him up long enough for him to become used to being undead.

Will tightens the hand still holding onto the lip of the casket, forces himself to breathe. “You passed away three days ago,” he says, not meeting the glassy stare directed his way, “I was asked to bring you back, because your son—”

“ _What_?” the man asks again, more shrilly this time, and Will only just resists rolling his eyes. The dead never are very good at conversation, and most of the time that suits him just fine. Now, though, he can feel his power wavering, and he knows he doesn’t have much time. He sighs, runs his free hand down his face, and then tries again.

“Mr. Wilkins, your son wants to know—”

“I don’t have a son,” the man interrupts, his made-up face wrinkling stiffly with confusion. “My wife and I haven’t had any children yet, and _oh_ , I’m dead?” he moans, his eyes searching Will’s face with irises faded in death to a pale gray, “Now I’ll never be able to give her any! Oh god, why? _Why_?”

He continues to bemoan his genepool’s lost potential as Will raises a hand to his face and tightly pinches the bridge of his nose. With little conscious thought on the matter, he lets go of the tether that holds the man in their current plane of existence, hardly hearing it as he falls back into his silk-lined resting place with a heavy _thwump_ , once again as dead as he was when Will arrived.

All of that power slams back into him, like a rubber band held taunt enough that it snaps, and although it tries to find its place back hidden under Will’s skin it does so clumsily, leaving him feeling too large for his body to contain. Perhaps that has something to do with the way the younger man takes a step back when Will turns to him in the near-darkness, his eyes flashing maybe from catching the setting sun, maybe from something more altogether.

“Who are you?” Will asks the supposed Brian Wilkins, and his voice sounds thunderous with residual power even to his own ears.

The other man doesn’t quite flinch, but it’s a near thing, even with the distance between them. He still hovers near the driver’s side door of the SUV where Will banished him before he animated the corpse of—who knows who it is? Some random person, whose rest Will has now disturbed?

“Listen, man,” Brian says, raising his hands up in front of him, miming surrender, “I’m just doing my job, okay?”

“You’re not his son,” Will replies testily, even though he doubts that it’s entirely necessary to rehash the short-lived conversation considering the volume of the corpse’s screaming. Will grits his teeth against a building headache. “Who are you?” he presses, “Who is he to you?”

Brian doesn’t lower his hands. “Nothing, no one,” he answers, Will supposes, the second question first. “Just some random stiff from the city morgue. Look, I just needed to see if you could do what you say you can do.”

Will grits his teeth and takes a step in the other man’s direction. “Who sent you?” he demands, hands clenching into fists at his sides. He thinks of New Orleans. Then, he forces himself to _not_ think of New Orleans.

“I did,” comes the answer, but not from Brian Wilkins; instead, it comes seconds after the back door to the dark SUV opens with a click. Out of it emerges a man—the windows are tinted, but how in the _hell_ did he miss this guy—who steps out into the well-tended but dead grass, buttoning his long woolen coat. The man is dark-skinned, broad, dressed in a suit remarkably like the one on the corpse laying just behind Will. He wears a hat reminiscent of the ones men wore in the 50’s, tilted at a jaunty angle over a face that bears what he is sure is a permanent scowl.

He seems like the kind of guy, to Will, who most people would scramble to obey. Will is, however, feeling more prickly than usual, and that coupled with the leftover power still crackling through his bloodstream causes him to practically growl out, “And who the fuck are _you_?”

Unimpressed, and certainly not intimidated, the man comes towards him. “My name is Jack Crawford,” he says, closing in enough that Will can see his dark eyes, the stupid and pointless little patch of hair left unshaven beneath his lower lip. “I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigations,” Jack Crawford offers, reaching for a card in the inside pocket of his jacket, “Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit.”

He produces the card he’s digging around for, and holds it out in Will’s direction. He doesn’t take it. In fact, Will finds he’s quite vigorously struggling with not taking a whole step back. Or two. Or however many it might take for him to sprint to his car, go home and grab his meager belongings, and move to yet another state. “What do you want?” he asks, his voice much shakier than he would like.

Jack Crawford considers him for a moment, before returning his card to the pocket it was produced from. “I’ve heard tell of what you can do,” he replies, jerking his chin towards the still-open coffin, quiet once more now that the dead man inside has returned to the sweet peace of death. Will allows himself a brief moment of pure jealousy, before he reminds himself that at least this Agent Crawford has come upon hearing what he _can_ do, as opposed to what he has _done_.

When Will crosses his arms protectively over his chest and locks his jaw, Jack sighs. “Look, I apologize for getting you out here through deceptive means,” he says, casting a glance at Brian, who while leaning against the front bumper of the vehicle they came in doesn’t look at all like he shares the sentiment. Jack shakes his head, looking distinctly unsurprised by this, before turning back to Will. “I came to see what you can do, and I _saw_ what you can do,” he adds, trying and failing to gentle his voice a little as he adds, “And what you can do is amazing.”

It’s far from the first time Will has heard this, of course, and he wets his lips before parting them in a sneer. “There’s been a lot of speculation about what I do,” he grumbles, “And some of that speculation is very dangerous to me.” He thinks, again, of burning witches, and barely hides his shudder. “If you know anything about me, which I’m sure you do,” he continues with a pointed look, “You know I’ve been exploited by law enforcement before. I don’t plan to find myself in that position again.”

“I’m not here to exploit you, Mr. Graham,” Agent Crawford answers, and to his credit his dark brows draw together, causing him to look almost as if he means it.

Will catalogs this response, and then asks carefully, “Then what do you want?”

“Why don’t we all go get a cup of coffee?” Brian asks, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets, “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

Jack nods his head in agreement, as if by his decision the matter is settled. Will watches as Brian climbs into the driver’s seat of the SUV, his feet planted firmly in the grass that grows over the decaying remains of the dead. Will can feel the tiny spark in each of them, some more faded with age than others, but there nonetheless. He wonders if, for all the illustrious Agent Jack Crawford knows about him, if he knows that he could raise them _all;_ hundreds of them, to his beck and call, given the inclination and the energy to do so.

He doesn’t, though. He learned a long time ago that the less people know about what he can do, the better. The _safer_. The more likely that he can go home each night to his own bed; a worn out, second-hand, and overall terribly uncomfortable mattress but his own all the same.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he hears himself saying, echoing his inner thoughts. Jack pauses, having moved halfway around the hood of the SUV to climb in the passenger side, to look up at him. “If you want something from me, you’re going to have to tell me now,” he says, his fingers still hugging his arms together releasing enough to gesture mildly at the cemetery around him filled with the dead. It’s as close to his own turf as he’ll ever be, he supposes; surrounded by corpses as he is. The dead are predictable, at least. Quiet and safe, until he tells them not to be.

Jack huffs, his dark eyes cutting towards Brian already in the car, somehow managing to effectively communicate with that one look for him to stay put. He does, and Will watches as Jack makes his way back around the car. He doesn’t stop until he’s too close for Will’s comfort, and all Will’s comfort goes directly out the window altogether as the other man reaches up and grips the edge of his glasses between thick fingers, lifting them higher up on Will’s nose so that he’s forced to meet Jack’s eyes.

“I need you to talk to the dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How badly can a body be fucked up before you can’t raise them?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will pays a reluctant visit to a crime scene with Jack.

It’s been a good long while since he had been at an active crime scene, and never in Maryland, but it would seem that both time and distance hadn’t changed much. Will watches glumly from the backseat of the dark SUV driven by Brian— _Zeller_ , FBI crime scene guy, Will had learned during the drive he finally agreed to—as people mill about, uniformed and otherwise, behind yellow crime scene tape. The promised cup of coffee—ordered through a drive-thru; formerly steaming, now growing cold—is clutched between his hands, his thumbnail idly pressing designs into the styrofoam.

Jack had discussed the case along the way, and Will had listened, lacking any other choice in the matter. There were people turning up dead all around the outskirts of Baltimore, enough that they were on the cusp of the public panicking. Which means, Will knows without being told, the higher-ups at the FBI are on the verge of panicking as well, and no doubt have begun to make Jack Crawford’s life miserable.

Zeller parks the vehicle in line with several others just like it, but doesn’t yet turn the key in the ignition. He wasn’t lying when he said at the cemetery that it’s fucking freezing; all the bodies swarming around behind the police tape like ants are doing so followed by their own puffs of breaths that dissipate into the darkness.

“So, you have no leads,” Will restates, his eyes dropping to admire the crosshatch pattern he’s created along the lip of his coffee cup, “No suspects. And there’s no pattern to the kills, to the victims themselves.”

Jack drains the rest of his coffee, and shakes his head. After removing his hat when he got in the car earlier, Will was treated to the rear view of his head for the entirety of the ride; short, dark hairs interspersed with gray that was beginning to take over, thinning ever so slightly at the crown. “Nothing,” he agrees, “Nothing at all. The victims are young and old, male and female, tall and short, white, black, everything in between.”

“The only similarity is the cause of death,” Brian adds, lifting his hand to wave in response to the two people in the distance who stop when they notice the car’s arrival and raise their hands first; one man in his late forties with graying hair and eyebrows raised into his hairline, and a younger, dark-haired woman in a leather jacket wearing way too wry of a smile for a crime scene. “They’re eviscerated,” he adds, lowering his hand to the wheel once more, before raising his eyes to meet Will’s in the rear-view mirror, “How badly can a body be fucked up before you can’t raise them?”

Will gives him a look that squashes _that_ line of discussion, unwilling to share any more than he has to about himself and his abilities to get through this, and instead reaches for the car door and exits the vehicle.

He hears two more doors open and shut, but his focus stays on his coffee, even more intently when the two that Zeller waved at moments before slip under the yellow tape to come greet them. It takes more force than it should to pry one hand loose from his cup long enough to rise and twitch his glasses into his line of sight, before halfway raising his gaze in the direction of man who approaches. It’s high enough to read his badge, and he shifts to read the woman’s as well, learning their names before Zeller goes on to introduce them.

“This is Jimmy Price and Beverly Katz,” he states grandly, clasping Will’s shoulder for a second and no doubt completely missing the way he cringes in response, “And _this—”_

“Is Will Graham,” the woman—Beverly—finishes for him, and she dips her head lower to catch Will’s gaze, much to his dismay. “We’ve heard a _lot_ about you,” she says with a crooked half-smirk.

“Great,” Will murmurs into his cup of cold coffee as he raises it to his lips, taking a sip for lack of anything better to do.

“Can he do it? Is it true?” she asks, looking between Zeller and Jack, and one of them must nod in the affirmative because she exclaims, “No fucking way!”

It’s loud enough that several of the police officers huddled nearby look up at them, and Will strongly wishes they would take him back to the graveyard they found him in; probably to get into his little car and go home, but more likely at this point to dig a grave for himself and lie down in it.

His three companions are still talking, oblivious to Will’s wishes. “I’ve got to see this in person to believe it,” Jimmy Price is saying, while eying Will suspiciously, “What you tell me he does is scientifically impossible. If you _do_ do what they say you do, Mr. Graham, would you be willing to sit down with me later and explain—”

“Can I see the body?” Will interrupts, having found the courage to lift his eyes finally to Jack’s, if only to put an end to the speculation he has no plans of putting to rest.

For all their outward differences, Jack seems to be just as ready to get the show on the road as Will is, even if it is for different reasons. He shoos the trio of investigators away with hardly more than a look—Will is grudgingly impressed by this, what does he have to do to be able to send people scattering with a _look_?—and then turns to Will as he settles his stupid-looking hat back on his head. With another gesture, he turns and walks away, and Will obediently follows.

They pick their way towards the crime scene tape, and Will ducks underneath when Jack raises it, then follows him through. On the edge of the treeline as they are, the cold wind dies down a little. At first Will is grateful for this, having been freezing his ass half off all night, but quickly wishes it would return when the stench of death fills his nose.

Eviscerated, indeed, if the smell alone is anything to go by; the smell of blood is compounded as Will follows Jack through the sparse, bare trees with the scents of other bodily fluids, bile and shit, and it’s all quite ripe despite the freezing temperatures. Will raises a hand to cover his nose just as they come to a small clearing between the trees, crawling with people with lab coats and cameras like ants having descended on a picnic.

Jack turns to face him, effectively blocking out his view of the scene. “What do you need from me?” he asks, and to Will’s mild surprise, seems to really want to know.

Will gives the question thought, since his knee-jerk response is to tell him what he _needs_ is to not be doing this, now or ever again. Time has passed since he last stood next to a body in an active crime scene, but it suddenly doesn’t seem like enough. He feels as though half of him is here, freezing in Baltimore with the FBI, and the other half is in a dark blue uniform with a badge pinned on his chest, sweating through his undershirt at the edge of a swamp.

He suddenly wants desperately to go home, and knows with equal desperation that he can’t ever go home again for many reasons; the least of which being that he doesn’t _have_ a home.

“Silence,” he hears himself saying, “Or as close to it as I can get. I can’t work with all these people around, my mind...” He trails off, gesturing towards where his brain lies encased in his skull, considers, then continues, “I can’t think with all these folks _thinking_ so close.”

Jack eyes him in silence then nods, and takes a deep breath before bellowing, “Everybody _out_! Clear the scene!” Immediately all the investigators scatter, and even some crows waiting in nearby trees take flight with indignant squawks. “Anything else?” he asks, his voice a normal level again.

Will wants to scatter along with everyone else, but he forces himself to shake his head, sighing out a simple, “Nope.”

Jack nods his head, and Will watches as he slowly backs away. He doesn’t go far, however; merely stepping just past the treeline to watch, and although everyone else followed his orders and disappeared completely, Will can see Zeller, Katz, and Price lingering a few yards behind him, pretending not to be watching his every move.

He sighs a sigh meant for all of them, and then turns for the first time towards the body.

Eviscerated, he decides, is somehow still and understatement for what he sees. The body lying sprawled in the dead sparse grass and moss is almost completely destroyed. Stepping closer while he carefully avoids trodding on the little plastic tents set up to mark evidence to be collected, he allows his gaze to travel over the victim, keeping his lips pressed tightly together as he holds his breath in a failing attempt to keep the foul odors from reaching him.

Besides the boots still holding onto feet, and the pale hands reaching out across the dirt and browning vegetation around it, there’s not much left to identify this poor soul as a former human being. He supposes at some point the body was that of a male, well-built, and tall. But now the entire torso, from throat down to knees, is torn to shreds, and all the things that make a human body work on the inside are mostly on the outside; organs glistening with viscera spilling through their cages of broken, brittle bone. Without thinking, Will’s hand comes to rest just below his sternum, where the same organs rest beneath his skin. It would take so little to bring them out, he muses, much less than whatever happened to this person. One well-placed slice, and everything that makes humans _alive_ comes spilling right out…

“The uniforms are convinced it’s an animal attack.”

Will jolts at the sound of Jack’s voice, closing his eyes tightly to chase away the lingering thoughts of just where he’d have to be cut for his own guts to be spread across the ground just like the body’s. He opens his eyes, blinks them, and then shakes his head quickly from side to side. “An animal that attacks and doesn’t _eat_ anything?” he asks, feeling his face screwing up at the absurdity of the idea but powerless to stop it.

Jack’s answering expression could generously pass for amused. “I never said I agreed with them,” he points out from his post several yards away, “That’s why I brought you here. Wake him up and _ask_ him.”

Will shakes his head again, and looks back at the mangled corpse. “That’s not exactly how this works,” he says, taking a deep breath and immediately regretting it as his lungs fill with the putrid stink of rot. “Look at the throat, Agent Crawford,” he tells him, jerking his chin in the general direction of said throat, “There’s nothing left of it. I can ask him whatever I want, until I’m blue in the face, but he’s not going to be answering a thing.”

Jack tilts his head minutely to the side. “So you can’t find out who did this?” he asks, and looks thunderous at the possibility of wasted time.

Will considers, however briefly, agreeing that he cannot. He’d be allowed to leave, he knows. Perhaps Jack Crawford would never darken his door again. It would be so easy to lie and be free of all of this once more, especially when he can already imagine being paraded from crime scene to crime scene, a special tool pulled out only when useful.

It would be easy to allow himself to be returned to the figurative tool shed. Useless, and not called upon again.

So easy.

“I didn’t say that,” he says, hates himself even as he says it, “I just said he won’t be the one telling me. Gloves?”

He holds out a hand, and seconds later Beverly Katz appears with a box, proving that she hadn’t wandered far enough away to be out of earshot. He plucks two blue gloves from within, and she’s gone just as quickly as she appeared by the time he’s pulled them on, letting them snap tight around his wrists. He can hear whispering as she rejoins her comrades at the treeline, closer than Will remembers them being, and he struggles to tune them out as he steps closer to the corpse.

“Some would consider this cruel, you know,” he says, maybe to Jack, maybe to himself.

Jack hums thoughtfully from the treeline. “What’s that?” he asks as Will licks his lips, studying the ground before carefully kneeling in a place that seems clean enough of the deceased man’s insides.

Up close, Will considers the corpse—the facial features are indiscernible from the rest of mess, almost as if they’d been chewed on and chewed _off_. “Reanimating him,” Will says softly as he reaches out, attempting to lay flat a flap of flesh laying across the body’s throat, only for it to fall back open once again, revealing the white lines of the vocal chords underneath. “If this happened to you...if this is how you died, would you want to be woken up to experience it again?”

Jack Crawford is quiet, giving Will’s question the consideration that it deserves. Will doesn’t bother glancing up to look at him. “I suppose I would want someone to find out what happened to me, so it didn’t happen to someone else,” he says after a moment. “I’d do whatever it took to keep other people safe. I’ve made a career out of it.” Will looks up then, enough that his eyes land on an old acne scar just below Jack’s right eye as he adds, “I understand that at some point, so did you.”

It’s the right answer, if there _is_ a right answer. Will nods, remembering the need he had once felt to keep others safe, how much he had meant it when he took his oath upon joining the force. It feels like so long ago, a different life; so much had changed, since then.

He turns back to the corpse, with a ragged breath that fills him, once again, with death. _Death_ , the only constant in his life. It smells the same as it did back then.

His hands don’t shake much at all as he reaches out, cupping the dead man’s face—what’s left of it, anyway—between his palms. He can feel through the thin latex of the gloves how cold the body is, all the life leached out of it, as frozen as the ground beneath his knees. For the second time that night he reaches inside of himself, strokes the little flicker of power within, stokes it until it begins to burn into a small flame. His eyes close on their own accord as he feeds it, lets it grow into something stronger that warms him from the inside, traveling along his veins and nerve endings with every quickening beat of his heart. He feels it become electric, static crawling under his skin, raising the fine hairs along the back of his neck.

And then, he points it outward, and the face in his hands begins to twitch.

The life slams back into the dead man suddenly, and with force. Someone is gasping, someone is screaming, and Will isn’t quite sure which one of them is doing which. Both sounds are ragged and desperate, and Will’s own throat feels raw and torn, and then as if he’s stuck a foot into quicksand he’s sucked under, suddenly entirely _inside_ , and being ripped completely apart at the seams.

The man’s final moments are abruptly Will’s reality, and he screams in terror and agony as sharp claws dig into his chest, tearing deep rivets into his flesh, slicing into the softness of his belly. He feels every second of the wet weight slapping against him as his insides become his outsides, hands and claws tearing things out of the cavity of his body as parts of him that were never meant to see the light of day are exposed and pushed aside. He screams, begs for mercy, for help, for a mother whatever rational side of him is left knows he never knew. He’s dying and he knows it, and he is so very, _very_ afraid; terrified of what he has seen and of the thing that is doing this to him.

Will struggles to hold on, to see it for himself, and he gets his wish mere seconds before his death. The creature—because it’s a _creature_ , not a person—lifts its head and considers him curiously as he gasps out his dying breaths. As the death rattle escaping him sounds deafening in his ears, Will can see a man’s face reflected in the creature’s black eyes that isn’t his own, twisted in torment and fear. The face those eyes belong to is streaked with blood, and would look almost human if it weren’t for the way the lips part and reveal rows and rows of sharp, jagged teeth. It bares them in a cruel twist of a smile, and it’s this that is the last thing Will sees before the jaws part unnaturally wide and the creature strikes with a snarl and rips out his throat.

The ground is cold against Will’s back as he comes back to himself, twisting and gasping in the dirt, his dirty hands leaving streaks of congealed blood and entrails as he grasps at his throat, desperately trying to hold together a wound that’s not there. Then Jack Crawford appears in his line of vision above him, leaning down to grip Will beneath his arms and _pulls_ , dragging him away from the corpse who once again lays motionless on the cold, hard ground.

He props him unceremoniously against the trunk of a tree, before dropping into crouch to bring him level with Will’s eyes as the younger man still pants desperately, the dead man’s terror now his own, there to stay. “You contaminated the crime scene,” he accuses, and Will barely registers the words, unable to grasp at the moment, still, that he’s not _part_ of the crime scene.

Beverly appears at his elbow, dropping to her knees with a bottle of water. Will takes it gratefully, although some spills out with the shaking of his hands as he lifts it to his lips to gulp down. Vaguely, he’s surprised that it doesn’t all spill out through the hole in his neck, and he brings his fingers once more to his throat, assuring himself that he is whole.

“What did you see?” she asks, her smile long gone, her dark eyes wide and face pale as she gingerly takes the bottle from him before he can drink too much and make himself sick, “Who killed him?”

It takes Will a moment to slow his breathing enough to gasp out a single word.

“ _Vampire_.”

Jack’s face is made of steel. He looks down at the ground, and then stands, towering over him. His his eyes match his expression, cold and hard.

“Are we living in a teen romance novel here?” Zeller is saying, and Will turns his head enough to see him standing between where he sits and the body, along with Jimmy Price. He hadn’t even heard them approach. “There’s no such thing as vampires, guys. Come the fuck _on_.”

Price throws his hands in the air. “Brian!” he cries with shrill exasperation, “A half hour ago I didn’t think there was such a thing as a _witch_ that could bring the dead back to life, but...” He jerks his thumb in Will’s direction.

“Not a witch,” Will argues weakly.

“Well, you’re _something_ ,” Beverly replies, still knelt in the fallen leaves beside him, “What you just did was...” She trails off, before looking up to her coworkers, “You guys saw what I did. That guy was dead, and then he _wasn’t_.”

Jack, to his credit, doesn’t seem to Will to be as unconvinced as the others. Zeller and Price have dissolved into bickering between themselves over the existence of supernatural creatures, but Jack’s eyes are only on Will’s. Finally, he sighs, and takes the bait.

“How do you _know_ it was a vampire, Will?” he asks, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat.

Will wets his lips, chances a sideways glance up at him, considers lying; but the truth is what comes out.

“I’ve seen it before,” he whispers.

“When?” Beverly presses, “Where? Where have you seen it before?”

Decades have passed, and Will has never told anyone, _ever_. But suddenly now seems as good of a time as any. He sighs, goes to rub his eyes, stops just in time when he remembers the gore on them. Steels himself, then speaks his most heavily guarded truth to a group of strangers.

“When it killed my father.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can a death be avenged without another death, Doctor Lecter?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will meets someone who might just believe him.

It had been a very long time since Will last visited a crime scene. Just as long, almost, since he found himself in a psychiatrist’s office, and even the biggest idiot in the world would know that the two are closely connected. For him, anyway: the _second_ biggest idiot in the world.

Replaying the events of the night before in his head again for what had to be the thousandth time, Will wonders again just when he let everything go so dramatically wrong. He should have kept his mouth shut, he knows; should have never let the truth of what happened to his father slip out, but after seeing the creature through the victim’s eyes it seemed nearly impossible to keep it in.

Before that, then. Turning on his heel to walk in the other direction across a waiting room that seems entirely too small because of a lack of anywhere else to go, Will decides on the moment that he saw Jack Crawford for the first time.

He should have turned tail and _ran_.

He could still do so now, he knows; escape this tiny waiting room in this sprawling house in the Baltimore suburbs, and leave town and never come back. Even as he thinks it, though, he remembers what he saw the night before. Remembers why he agreed to come to the office in the first place. Remembers his father, and knows he _has_ to see this through.

His pacing slows to a stop in front of a painting on display in the waiting room. He recognizes it vaguely; the two men looking on, the demonic winged creature’s manic grin, the two nude men twisted together, presumably fighting. Will’s eyes are drawn immediately to the one biting the other man’s neck, what with the last few days, and swallows loudly enough that it drowns out the sound of the door opening behind him.

“Dante and Virgil,” a voice says from behind him, accented heavily in a way Will can’t even begin to identify. “Painted by William Bouguereau in 1850. A reproduction, of course; the original is on display currently, at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris.”

Will doesn’t bother turning just yet, his eyes traveling lower to stare at one of the man’s hands, at the trickle of blood depicted where his nails dig into the other man’s flesh. “Not exactly your normal fare for a psychiatrist’s office,” he offers, crossing his arms over his chest and bringing one hand up to scrub at the dark hair shading his jaw, chewing on the words before he adds, “It isn’t very...soothing.”

“Life itself is rarely soothing, which is what brings most patients to this room,” the man agrees, and Will finally tears his eyes away and turns around, his eyes safely downcast, not ready to risk meeting the stranger’s eyes. He’s met instead with the most absurdly _loud_ suit he’s ever seen in his life; and he’s certainly seen a few terrible suits opening up coffins for a living. He blinks at the blood red checks over teal, before his eyes travel up to a garishly patterned tie that somehow manages to both match and clash for a second before lowering again to land on an equally ridiculous pocketsquare. Who the fuck even wears a pocketsquare in the middle of the day? “Mr. Graham, I presume?” the man is saying, and when Will nods absently he steps back from the door, sweeping an arm in the direction of the office within as he adds, “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Please, come in.”

Will edges past him, and with the doctor safely behind him, he raises his gaze to sweep his surroundings. Although the waiting room was miniscule, this room is sprawling, with high ceilings and a mezzanine circling three quarters of the room, creating a second floor seemingly only accessible by a ladder in the center. The top floor and most of the ground floor is walled with deep shelves in a dark, gleaming wood, and Will feels the briefest moment of childlike awe to see each shelf lined completely with books. In another world, where this wasn’t a mandatory psychiatric evaluation to determine his competency to stay on a case he _has_ to stay on, Will knows he could spend hours happily with the books in the room.

His current situation is quickly brought back to him, though, as his new psychiatrist shuts the door with a click behind him. Will follows his movements as he makes his way around him and towards the large desk situated in the middle of the room, giving Will his back for a moment. He’s caught momentarily by the way the man moves; quiet, with hardly more than the swish of fine fabrics and the click of heels on his leather shoes. He’s attempting to disarm him, Will knows; knows it’s completely for his benefit that the other man allows him to take in his surroundings unhindered as he needlessly fiddles with a book and a pen on his desk, carefully aligning them parallel with the wooden edge.

“You may have a seat wherever you like.”

Will starts at the sound of his voice, but finds himself obeying, taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door before walking to the closest black leather chair and carefully folding himself into it. His hands feel clammy, and he fitfully wipes his palms against the rough fabric of the trousers covering his knees, then folds his hands in his lap. He is still for only a split-second before he changes their position again, leaving them to lie limply against his thighs. He’s painfully uncomfortable, and painfully aware that fact is obvious to the doctor he can feel watching him, although he pointedly doesn’t look up to confirm. Instead, he watches in his peripheral vision as the doctor walks in measured steps from his desk and lowers himself gracefully into the matching chair across from him.

Will’s gaze darts up again, watching as one leg is crossed primly over the other, hands folded neatly on his knee. Lets it travel higher to glance over the other man’s face—thoroughly unusual looking, an exotic blend of angles that should be too sharp to be pleasing, and yet aren’t—then promptly looks back to the floor again.

“Shall we start with what brings you here today?”

Will’s lips twist into a cruel facsimile of a smile, lifting his gaze to a spot just beyond the doctor’s ear; a practiced move to create the illusion of eye contact he doesn’t plan to actually give. “Didn’t Jack Crawford fill you in?” he asks testily, “He’s the one that sent me here, after all.”

“Agent Crawford did indeed fill me in,” the man replies, tilting his head to the side as he adds, “But I should like to hear your side of things, Will. If I may call you Will?”

“May _I_ call you Hannibal?” Will asks petulantly, meaning to be mocking, but the doctor merely inclines his head and continues to look at him expectantly. Will deflates a bit. “I’m sorry, I...” he starts, and finally nods once, a sharp jerk up and then down, and raises his hand to rub again at the stubble on his jaw. “Jack Crawford and I only met yesterday,” he starts, his brow furrowing, since that somehow seems impossible. He hadn’t slept the night before, and it’s wearing on him. “We met when he asked me to consult on a case, because of my...area of expertise.”

The doctor nods, static in his movements besides his fingers flexing on his knee. Will trains his eyes there, staring at the wrinkles around the man’s knuckles, his neatly manicured nails. “He tells me you have a unique way of dissecting a crime scene,” Hannibal says lightly.

“That’s certainly one way of putting it,” Will replies, wincing at the bitterness in his voice.

He dares a glance up in time to see Hannibal’s expression undergo the barest change to something that could maybe, if one was being generous, be called a smirk. “I have not had the pleasure of knowing Agent Crawford for long, but he strikes me as a man who is desperate for answers,” he says, his accent catching all the consonants in an unusual way.

“And I gave him one,” Will replies.

“Indeed, you did,” Doctor Lecter agrees with a note of amusement in his voice.

“Not so desperate for answers that he readily accepts mine.”

A hum of agreement. “And now he seeks yet another answer, to yet another question.”

“Rather or not I’m crazy.”

“You told Agent Crawford that his killer is a vampire,” the doctor replies, his tone light, “I suppose some would find that hard to believe.”

His choice of words causes Will to look up, his brow furrowing slightly as he asks, “But you don’t?”

Hannibal smiles. “I prefer to keep an open mind about all things, Will,” he answers, “I find that life is more interesting that way.”

Will smirks in return, managing a shade of eye contact as his expression crumbles into something pained. “I mostly try to keep my life uninteresting, Doctor Lecter. It’s _easier_ that way.”

Hannibal lifts his chin, considering. “I suppose that is easy enough to do, in the company of the dead,” he replies thoughtfully, “The people themselves, who they were, and how they found themselves to be among the deceased may vary, but in the end we are all the same, are we not? All the small variances that make us so different, the things that make a life into a life drained out of us, the very magic that animates us, all gone by the wayside...leaving behind nothing more than a shell made of meat and bone.”

Will finds himself staring as the words pour from the doctor who has thus far seemed to be a man of few words, rhythmic and almost melodic in his deep voice and strange accent. The words themselves resonate enough that he’s forced to blink hard to shake himself. This doesn’t escape the doctor’s attention, of course, and he tilts his head ever so slightly in a bird-like way, all of his sharp attention suddenly focused on Will as he asks softly, “Do you often feel like a shell of meat and bone yourself, Will?”

He considers, briefly, lying; is geared up to do so, but in the end hears himself instead whispering, “Yes.”

Hannibal returns his stare for a moment, unblinking and unmoving, before he seems to reanimate; uncrossing his legs and then crossing them in the other direction. “My professional opinion, Will, is that you need to venture outside of the company of the dead from time to time.”

Will huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “I did, just last night as a matter of fact, and look where it landed me.”

“In my office? Is my presence really such a burden to you, Will?” he asks, his head tilting enough that the lamplight catches in his dark eyes, betraying his amusement in the way that they seem to glitter. “Are your conversations with the dead really so titillating?”

“They don’t ask me any questions,” Will points out, and though he means for there to be there’s no edge to his voice, “ _You_ ask a lot.”

“Questions are a given when one finds someone intriguing,” Hannibal replies, his small smile appearing again in the sharp edges of his face as he adds, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“I don’t find you that interesting.”

“You will.” Will arches a brow at the declaration and says nothing, just wilts momentarily under the doctor’s piercing gaze. When he moves to straighten a cufflink that has dared to twist ever so slightly on his sleeve, Will follows the motion for a lack of anywhere safer to look. “Tell me about your father, Will,” he says eventually, shocking a startled laugh out of the younger man.

“That’s some lazy psychiatry, Doctor Lecter,” Will replies, although he can feel his cheeks heat in something close to panic that causes his words to sound harsher than he intended when he adds, “Childhood trauma priming the brain for future mental illness?”

“A conversation for another day, perhaps,” Hannibal agrees, “I would point out, however, that it is your father that brought you here.”

“Meeting Jack Crawford brought me here,” Will retorts.

At this, Hannibal smiles again. “Jack Crawford requested a psychological evaluation for you, yes,” he agrees, “A requirement for you to continue consulting on his case. If you fail the evaluation, or were to simply choose not to take part in it, the case would surely manage to continue on without your insights, would it not?”

Will’s brow furrows. “Yes, but—”

“But you came here, on your own, to see me,” Hannibal interrupts, albeit politely. “You came here to put yourself through a psychological evaluation that you clearly do not wish to take part in. Why?”

Will opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, taking a breath to reply. Stops, and licks his lips, and looks down at his hands. “I want to work on this case,” he says finally, his voice much smaller than he would like it to be.

The doctor nods. “Because these people are being slaughtered by vampires,” he says, “Just like your father was.”

“Yes,” Will says thinly.

“Do you believe if you were able to stop these killings, that you will somehow have avenged your father’s death, Will?”

Will considers the doctor’s question, considers his own possible answers. Settles, eventually, on something he considers to be the truth. “Can a death be avenged without another death, Doctor Lecter?”

Will chances eye contact as he asks, and sees plainly a flash in the doctor’s dark eyes; a strange shade of honeyed brown, the color of the whiskey he can’t wait to dive into as soon as he can get the fuck out of there and make his way home tonight. “Tell me about your father, Will,” Hannibal presses again.

Will drops his eyes again and sighs, lifting a hand to press against the ache building in his temple. “It was just me and him,” he says eventually, lowering his hand to smooth down the khaki surface of his pant leg, doing nothing for the wrinkles that were deeply set into them long before he pulled them on that morning. “My mother...” he goes on, “I never knew her. He tried his best to raise me on his own, though. We were very poor. Moved around a lot.”

“Always the new boy in school,” Hannibal says when Will pauses, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Always,” Will replies, smiling tightly, “But it was better that way. Made it easier for me to fly under the radar. To keep people from noticing that I was...”

Hannibal allows him to trail off into silence for a moment, before he prompts, “You were what, Will?”

“Different,” Will says, the word seemingly pulled out of him. “I didn’t want to be, but I was.”

“And your father?” Hannibal prods, “Did he know you were different, too?”

“He knew there was something wrong with me,” Will says softly, his brows drawn deeply over thoughtful eyes, “He tried to be supportive, but he didn’t understand. Maybe wasn’t capable of understanding. I was a really weird kid.”

“As was I,” Hannibal replies with a smile that just touches his eyes. “Tell me about what you saw at the crime scene last night, Will, and how it relates to your father.”

Will glances up at the directness of his question, presses his lips together in thought. “Jack told me to look. When I did, I saw the same thing through his eyes that I saw through my father’s,” he whispers softly.

“A vampire,” Hannibal says, his own voice lowering to match.

Will swallows thickly and nods, then after a moment looks up at the doctor sharply. “Is this the way you talk to all of your patients?” he asks, eyes dark, “The ones with delusions?”

“What delusions are those, Will?” Hannibal asks innocently.

“You can’t possibly believe me,” Will insists, rubbing his hands briskly over his thighs, “Nobody believes me.” He suddenly feels like he’s crawling out of his own skin under the other man’s scrutiny, and it spurs him into movement, launching himself to his feet to wander the office under the pretext of studying the books on the nearest shelf. His eyes flicker over the titles but he doesn’t read them, his mind too busy conjuring up images from the night before; sharp teeth, bloody torn flesh.

“I believe I’ve already told you that I prefer to keep an open mind in all things, Will,” the doctor responds, and Will startles at how close his voice comes, spinning to face the other man standing just a few feet away with his hands neatly folded into the pockets of his pressed pants. Will hadn’t even heard him move. “I certainly do not yet have enough information on which to base a decision as to rather or not you are suffering from delusions,” he continues, lowering his eyes to catch Will’s reluctant gaze. This close, Will notes, they look less like honeyed whiskey and more like the blood dried against the corpse’s throat the night before. The thought makes him swallow hard, although he seems unable to break his gaze away, staring right into the other man’s dark eyes. Hannibal takes a breath, the first that Will has noticed him take since he cornered him by the bookshelf, and then asks softly, “How do you see through the eyes of the dead, Will?”

It’s a question he’s been asked what must be millions of times in his life, but he’s never answered, never really _had_ an answer. But he finds himself almost wanting to tell this man, to describe it to him, to try to explain to someone who doesn’t seem to want to know for his own gain. The older man’s curiosity shines through his eyes as he holds his gaze, unwavering. He truly _wants_ to know, and Will considers and then fails to find the words to tell him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once, then again. He knows who it must be without looking; it’s not like anyone calls him to shoot the shit. But all the same, he pulls it out of his pocket, thumbing at the screen until it lights up to display the message he’s received.

He sighs, hitting the button to darken the screen once more, before sliding it back into his pocket and glancing up to the doctor’s face again, only to find he’s taken a step closer. The man shows nothing of it on his face, but Will can _feel_ his desire to understand radiating off of him like heat from feverish skin. A part of Will that had, for longer than he can remember, longed for someone— _anyone—_ to _see_ makes his decision for him.

“I can’t tell you how I do it, Doctor Lecter.” He leaves the doctor staring as he turns around to gather his coat off the coat rack, sliding it on.

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I must admit, I find my curiosity quite piqued,” he explains, close enough that Will finds himself shocked into looking up into his eyes, shrouded as they are in the shadows cast by his brow, “And I am nothing if not indulgent of my curiosity, Will.”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal and Will visit their first crime scene together. It doesn't go well.

The ride to the outskirts of Baltimore isn’t short, but is made in frankly obscene comfort, thanks to Hannibal’s insistence that he drive them both to meet Jack. Will smirks to himself as he trails his fingers over the buttery, heated leather seat beneath him at the near grimace that flitted across the doctor’s features when Will offered to drive, hitching a thumb in the direction of his clunky old station wagon, looking terribly out of place parked near Hannibal’s Bentley.

Will had been worried his interrupted appointment would continue on the ride, but instead Hannibal had allowed him his silence, punctuated only by the soft notes of the classical music playing at a low volume through the speakers; barring a short discussion regarding directions to the crime Jack had provided in his text message. Will had split the time of their commute between worrying over having revealed himself to so many over the past twenty-four hours, and stealing glances at the doctor’s profile.

Most of the time, he had found a slight smile on the older man’s features, and as they near their destination Will finally works up the courage to say, “Most people wouldn’t be happy about going to see a dead body, you know.”

Hannibal’s smile only grows, and he casts a glance over at Will, causing him to promptly look away. His gloved fingers tighten then relax on the wheel as he turns his gaze back to the road in front of him, but Will can still hear the smile in his voice as he replies, “I believe we have both discovered today that neither of us are _most people_ , Will.”

He finds he can’t argue with that. _Most_ people would have called him a liar or crazy outright at his claim that vampires exist; he had, after all, dealt with that just the night before on the scene of the last murder. But the doctor seems at least interested, at most entertained, by Will’s claims.

He finds he’s not sure what to think about that.

“I have not always been a psychiatrist,” Hannibal is saying, cutting through Will’s thoughts, “I practiced as a trauma surgeon for many years before making the switch.”

“Cutting into bodies wasn’t enough, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks with a smirk, resting his curly head against the window beside him, “You wanted to dig around in brains, too?”

“It was simply time for a change,” Hannibal responds good-naturedly, “The mind shouldn’t be allowed to fester, doing the same things day in and day out.”

“I can’t imagine that sitting there listening to people drone on and on about their problems is more exciting than saving a life,” Will says as they near the scene, blue and red lights flashing bright in the dusky light of the late evening.

Hannibal casts a glance in his direction. “You would be surprised.”

He pulls his car into a large enough space between a police cruiser and a black SUV that is likely Jack’s, putting it in park before cutting the engine. Immediately the cold sets in, and Will presses his hands to the heated seat on either side of his thighs, chasing the warmth. When he chances a glance at Hannibal, he seems distinctly unbothered by the cold; the lights flickering over his face as he looks out at the scene before them.

It’s easy enough to pick out Jack’s silhouette at the crest of the hill before them, the hem of his coat flickering in the light wind, that stupid hat set at an angle on his head once more. He sees Hannibal’s vehicle, and raises on hand in their direction.

Will’s head swivels to look at Hannibal, brows drawn. “You and Jack actually know each other,” he states, feeling betrayed by this information for some reason he can’t quite name.

Hannibal nods, raising a hand in return, watching Jack barks out an order and white coats and blue uniforms scatter, before the man begins walking towards them. “Professionally speaking, yes, for some time,” he replies, “Myself and several other colleagues are called in from time to time to consult on cases.”

“Luck of the draw that I got sent to you, then, and not one of your colleagues?” Will asks, raising a brow.

Hannibal smiles, reaching out with one gloved hand for the door handle as he replies, “I believe Uncle Jack thought you and I would be a good fit for one another.”

With that, he opens the door, and gracefully unfolds himself from his seat before closing it behind him. Will blinks before following, but more or less scrambles haplessly from his own seat and slams the door behind him, frowning at the fingerprints he accidentally left behind on the pristine dark paint.

Jack and Hannibal are already shaking hands when he rounds the car. “Thank you for coming along, Doctor Lecter,” the agent is saying, clapping a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. Will notices the way the doctor’s eyes flick to the hand on his dark woolen coat like it offends him, causing Will’s lips to turn up slightly, an expression that Jack seems to think is for him. “And Will,” he says, advancing on him only to stop when Will shrinks away, “Two for the price of one, hm? How did your appointment go?”

Will knows that Jack Crawford knows full well what time his appointment was, and knows that his text interrupted it, and he opens his mouth to say as much, before Hannibal speaks up for him. “Our appointment went very well,” he replies, and although he is smiling at Jack, it strikes Will as extremely wooden; nothing like the snatches of amusement he’s accidentally teased out of the doctor in his short time of knowing him. “In fact, I have signed off on his psychological evaluation,” he adds, moving his gaze enough to catch Will’s eyes widening in surprise, only to grow wider when he adds cordially, “Will Graham is functional and more or less sane.”

Jack looks extremely pleased as he turns fully to Will. “Well, isn’t that wonderful news?”

Will is still gaping, and forces his mouth to close, although he can’t stop himself from shooting Hannibal a questionable look. Behind Jack, the doctor shrugs, an elegant roll of one shoulder. His almost invisible smile is back, creasing just at the corners of his eyes, as he watches to see if Will will play along.

“Wonderful news,” Will echoes. Under the weight of both men watching him, he unconsciously hunches his shoulders, shoving his cold hands deep into his pockets as he asks, “There’s another one?”

“Yep,” Beverly Katz replies, all but materializing beside Jack, a large black camera dangling from a strap around her neck. Will quails slightly at the sight of her, remembering the look on her face the night before as she had dropped to her knees in the dirt beside him as he trembled and panted from his vision. The look on her face as she asked him what he saw, the way she had been the first to seem to believe he might be telling the truth while all the others had called bullshit when he answered. “Did you get your head shrunk?” she asks with a lopsided smile, jerking her chin towards Hannibal, “He clear you to be here?”

Will can’t find it within himself to lie outright to this woman who has shown him her own tough-girl brand of kindness, and so he merely glances in Hannibal’s direction, before nodding his head at the man’s expectant look.

“Awesome,” she replies, giving him an exaggerated thumbs up, before producing a pair of gloves from the pocket of her lab coat. “Shall we?”

Will nods weakly again, casting a longing glance back towards the Bentley, struck suddenly by how safe he had felt inside it. Closed off from the horrors that lingered just outside its doors, feeling distinctly _not_ trapped in its warmth, even with the prying eyes of the doctor at his side.

Jack and Beverly begin to walk back up the hill to small, sparse tract of woods that sits atop it, flowing down the backside like a dense head of hair. The entrance to a suburban neighborhood sits to the right of the hill, and some of its residents stand just beyond the police tape, their faces pale and frightened in the flashing lights of the parked cruisers keeping them at bay. Will wonders if any of them know the victim, if they will watch the body being loaded up in the coroner’s van later with a scream of grief trapped beneath their chin as he did, watching his father being taken away so many years before. If years later, they will find themselves themselves clearing their throats, that very scream still caught there no matter how many times its been released.

“Will?”

He starts, blinking hard against the flashing lights, turning to see Hannibal standing at his elbow. His eyes flicker up to the man’s face, expecting to see some shade of concern on his features, but is surprised to see a look of faint curiosity. This is, somehow, much easier to accept than sympathy, and he finds himself smirking in amusement at this strange man when he asks, “Are you well?”

“No,” he answers honestly, glancing up to make sure Jack and Beverly have put enough distance between them not to overhear before he asks, voice lowered to a whisper, “And I’ve said nothing to convince you otherwise so far. And yet, you all but rubber-stamped me for Jack.”

Hannibal smiles his bare smile, and to Will’s surprise, reaches out to press a hand to his lower back, startling him into a walk, following the federal agents that left them in their wake. “I believe I said you were more or less sane. Do you disagree with my assessment, Will?” he asks as they walk, not dropping his hand from the small of Will’s back, and despite his aversion to being touched generally speaking, he finds he doesn’t entirely mind.

“Not with the ‘or less’ part,” Will replies with a crooked grin, his eyes on Jack’s broad shoulders as he crests the hill ahead of them, crossing into the artificial light spilling from the halogen lamps set up by the police to illuminate the crime scene in the last red light of the setting sun. “I want to stay on the case, and you made that happen,” he ventures, stopping to linger for a moment just shy of the pool of light, turning to the doctor, feeling safer letting his eyes venture up to his face when the other man’s features are bathed in shadow, “You want me on the case too. Badly enough to lie to the FBI.”

Hannibal steps closer and reaches out, taking the lapels of his too-thin jacket and crossing them one over another, wrapping him in warmth. “I must admit, I find my curiosity quite piqued,” he explains, close enough that Will finds himself shocked into looking up into his eyes, shrouded as they are in the shadows cast by his brow, “And I am nothing if not indulgent of my curiosity, Will.”

Shakily, Will nods, although he’s not quite sure what it is he’s agreeing to. Jack chooses that moment to bark out his name, and Will winces as he turns to see the man gesturing for him to come. He does, bristling all the while at being commanded like a dog—come, scent, _sic._

All thoughts leave him abruptly, however, as he crests the top of the hill.

The stench of death hits him suddenly with a shift of the wind, and Will chokes hard before reaching up with a shaking hand to cover his nose, blinking against the watering of his eyes as he takes in the scene before him. There’s not one corpse this time, but instead _three_ ; spread out amongst the trees in a mangle of limbs like a child’s ragdoll tossed aside carelessly. From the short distance between them, there’s no telling anything about the victims, and that doesn’t change as Will comes closer, his boots shuffling through the fallen leaves and dead grass. It is, in fact, nearly impossible to identify them as human; looking more like the castoffs of a butcher than someone that used to live and breathe and _be_.

Will starts when Hannibal steps up beside him, and he starts to insist that the man not put himself through this until he glances over to take in the doctor’s expression. His nostrils flare slightly, his lips thin with a fine moue of distaste, but he seems otherwise unaffected by the afterimages of slaughter before them.

“See anything like this as a trauma surgeon?” Will asks, trying to keep his tone light. Hannibal doesn’t answer, but his lips do turn up ever so slightly as he gives the younger man a long look.

Will leaves his side, stepping carefully through the grass until he reaches the underbrush at the edge of the woodline, closest to the center body but close enough to the others as well to survey all three at once. Jack goes to work barking out orders to clear everyone away, and the murmurs of the gathered law enforcement fades until Will can only feel the presence of Jack and Hannibal at his back.

“Any idea who they are?” he asks, staring down at the body closest to him; although _body_ is mostly a relative term, since what remains of the person that once was is mostly only a bloody pulp of muscle and fat and internal organs.

“Not yet,” Jack offers, “And by the looks of them, Jimmy and Brian will be doing their identifications with dental records.”

Will nods his head as he draws closer to the middle body, before crouching down beside it. “Doctor Lecter,” he says softly, knowing in the quiet that’s fallen around them the other man will hear him clearly, “How much blood does a human body hold?”

“Five liters, give or take,” comes the accented reply.

Will nods again, reaches out to prod some of the pale pink flesh piled up in front of him, innards that have become, he supposes, _outtards_.

“Is something funny here, Mr. Graham?” Jack says, and it’s only then that he realizes he has huffed a laugh at an inopportune time.

He glances up to catch Hannibal fighting back a smile, and switches his gaze to Jack, before looking down once more, affecting proper chastisement. “Would you say that there are fifteen liters of blood here?” he asks, before looking up at the doctor once more as he adds, “Give or take?”

Hannibal takes the opportunity to come closer, standing at the mostly intact feet of the body Will crouches beside, surveying the scene. “Certainly not,” he answers, before glancing back over his shoulder at Jack, who is looking quite grim.

“So the killer did the killing somewhere else,” he supposes, “And dumped them here.”

“All three?” Will asks, standing up from his crouch to turn to the body to his right, “At the same time? Are any of these bodies older than the others?”

Will looks to Jack for answers, but an excited voice pipes up from beyond the treeline, “Haven’t quite nailed down time of death just yet, but it’s safe to assume they all died around the same time!”

“Jimmy, stop eavesdropping and go wait by the damn car!” Jack all but bellows, and his words echo loudly through the trees, causing Will to flinch and Hannibal to level a reproachful look at Jack. Nonetheless, Will hears three pairs of feet scurrying away and down the hill, leaving him alone once more with three bodies and two sets of watchful eyes.

He wants to point out the very obvious answer to the question of the missing blood, but bites his tongue, knowing he shouldn’t push the subject until he sees it for himself. Instead he surveys the scene in silence, looking from the bodies and their parts scattered across the wet leaves on the forest floor, to the trees themselves, and the dark sky streaked with the last red remnants of the setting sun.

“They were out for an evening walk,” he says, glancing from their modest sneakers to the scraps of jogging pants still clinging to their legs. “From the colors of their clothes and their builds, I think it’s safe to assume they were all women.” He wets his lips, before leaning down to turn over the limp wrist of the body closest to him. The hand is small, and although it’s streaked with blood, it’s plain to see the nails were painted a light purple before they were broken ragged from a struggle, gore caked beneath the nails that remain intact. “She fought back,” he murmurs sadly, lifting the pale, bloodless hand to run his thumb over the small diamond ring on her third finger. On her own thumb there is another band with three brightly colored stones set deep in the gold; birthstones, he’s sure. Three children somewhere, now, without a mother.

He turns the hand to inspect the smart watch on the slender wrist, pressing it’s face with a gloved knuckle. His guess as to what brought her out in the first place is confirmed when the screen lights up, showing some sort of fitness app with a log of the woman’s steps that day, flashing with a notification for more steps that she will never take again.

He sighs, and carefully lowers her hand to settle across what is left of her chest. With his clean hand he reaches up, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose, before leaning in for a closer look. Deep ruts are torn into her chest, shredding flesh and breaking off bone unevenly. “Did the uniforms call this another animal attack when they were called in?” he asks, already knowing the answer. He looks to Jack, who nods once, and Will sighs. “An animal didn’t do this, Jack.”

Jack looks as though he’s about to argue, but with a glance at Hannibal, who is watching Will with poorly veiled rapt attention, seems to think better of it. “Are you going to wake them up or not?” he asks, impatient.

Will runs his clean hand down his face, rocking back to sit on his haunches. He doesn’t want to, for a multitude of reasons; not the least of which being how he abhors bringing someone back just to suffer. But as he glances back to the three small birthstones, he already knows that he will look, that he himself will experience it all again, in hopes of stopping this from happening. In hopes that this creature won’t create any more orphans than it already has.

He makes his decision and does what he does with little fanfare; no explanations, not even a glance in the direction of the two men watching him closely, standing sentry at the edge of the scene. He moves to settle on his knees beside his chosen body, reaches up to push a strand of blood-stained blonde hair away from the face that has been clawed to near complete ruin. The woman’s throat looks as though it has been gnawed on, sharp teeth marks having grated hard enough to crack her collar bone. He swallows thickly, before attempting to piece together the shreds of the throat. Once done, he presses his hand there, holding it all together as best he can, then closes his eyes and turns his focus within.

It’s there, as it always is—his only constant companion besides the dead. That flicker of power, a tiny flame begging to be fed. And he feeds it, stokes it with shaking fingers in his mind until it catches and glows bright, a shock of energy flowing outwards to the tips of his fingers and toes and then back again, crackling and hissing like an inferno beneath his skin.

He opens his eyes, presses his other hand to the woman’s cheek, his gloved fingers tracing an unmarred spot of flesh at her temple, and simply gives his power over to her.

He can feel the ragged breath she sucks in beneath his fingers where he holds her throat closed, and he braces himself as she begins to scream. They are guttural, haunting things; inhuman and desperate, and Will feels more than hears similar sounds being ripped from his own chest as he falls head-first into her mind.

_Desperation to live as his body is broken under unnaturally strong hands. Screaming until the sound is literally torn from his lungs by claws sinking deep, rending flesh and bone. Fighting like he never has before, never knew he was even capable of, with only one real thought beating through him with every seize of his dying heart._

_My babies. My_ babies _. I have to live for them._

_He sees the face of death as it lifts its head from his ruined throat, meeting his gaze with deep, black pits of nothingness…_

_...And he’s sucked under for a second time. All he knows is hunger, feral and bright and fathomless. He would do anything_ , anything _, to satiate it, kill and eat everyone and everything on this earth just for a moment’s reprieve from it. It’s all consuming, it’s everything to him, and he sinks his teeth into soft, yielding flesh again and_ drinks _._

The forest floor hits his back for the second time in as many days, but this time a heavy weight lands on top of him. For a moment he knows not what is happening, but then he feels fingernails—lavender, broken jagged—digging into his flesh and tearing, and the pain is real, blooming bright behind his eyelids as his throat burns with thunderous hunger and his teeth gnash for purchase.

“Will!” he hears someone calling, panicked, “Will, what the _fuck_ is happening?”

The name and the voice don’t mean anything to him, too embroiled in his battle and the slight body fighting atop him. A punch lands across his eye, slanting off of his nose, and he grins ferally as he feels his own blood spill, his tongue darting out to taste it as it runs down his upper lip.

It only serves to spike his bloodlust, and he gains the upper hand, slamming the body atop him onto the ground beside him. He climbs on top and bares his teeth, ready to go in for the kill even as nails rake rivulets of blood from his chest and arms, growling monstrously as he goes to strike.

A strong hand seizes in his hair, then, and pulls him up and back, sending him sprawling onto the ground behind him. The contact he had maintained with the dead woman breaks, and just like that, he’s himself again. Bloody, disoriented, panting desperately and teeth aching; but himself nonetheless. The corpse falls to the ground opposite of him with a dull thud, fingers twitching as the last of the power Will had unwittingly instilled in her leaves her body, her screams of terror halting abruptly, and the silence that descends upon the scene in their absence is deafening.

The hand in his hair gentles after a moment and then fingers soothe through his mess of curls, and he opens his eyes, having not even realized they were so tightly shut, when he hears a soft and accented, “Will.”

“Doctor Lecter?” he whispers weakly, his throat still burning harshly from the unquenchable thirst he felt.

The doctor’s expression is concerned, now; his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line as he drops neatly into a ridiculously graceful squat at Will’s side. “Who are you, and where are you right now?” the doctor asks, his tone clinical but his eyes betraying something else entirely.

Will blinks from his place on the forest floor, truly meeting the doctor’s eyes for the first time, his glasses lost somewhere and no longer providing a barrier. “I’m…” he starts, haltingly, carefully picking through the identities lingering in his mind until he finds the one that is right, but feels nonetheless at the moment like an ill-fitting suit. “My name is Will Graham. I’m outside Baltimore, Maryland.”

“Yes, you are,” Hannibal says with a slight lift at the corner of his lips, his hand having settled at some point at Will’s nape and remained there; his thumb stroking ever so lightly. The touch, surprisingly, chases away the lingering tendrils of the dead woman and her killer inside him, leaving him shaky and breathing hard with a strange itch at the roots of his teeth, but markedly less confused.

It’s almost enough to distract him from the three people crashing through the treeline onto the scene, the only three members of Jack’s team that Will knows by name looking like specters in their white lab coats as they slow to a stop, surveying the additional carnage with wide eyes.

“What the hell happened to _you?”_ Zeller asks, his dark brows drawing up almost comically high as he stares down at Will, on his ass in the leaves and mud. Beverly is staring openly as well at Will’s face, and he raises a trembling hand to press against his nose, his fingers coming away bloody, and he looks to Hannibal questioningly as if the man might have more answers than he does.

Jack steps closer, his expression thunderous. “This is the second crime scene you’ve contaminated in two days, Will,” he says, his voice raising a notch louder, and despite his best efforts to remain stony Will feels himself cower slightly as the man adds angrily, “You had better start talking.”

Hannibal stands abruptly, a lithe unfolding of long limbs, before he reaches down and hooks his hands under Will’s arms and unceremoniously levers him to his feet. Will makes a noise of surprise and tries to step away, but his knees waver mutinously under him, and he’s force to accept it as Hannibal grips his arm to steady him. “Jack,” the doctor says, drawing all eyes away from Will for the moment, for which Will is inordinately grateful, “I believe Will needs to go home, now.”

His tone brokers no argument, but Jack isn’t easily swayed. “I brought him here to look, Doctor Lecter,” he says, his expression hard, “He looked, and I need him to tell me what he saw.”

Will’s gaze, along with the gathered agents, have been flickering back and forth between Jack and Hannibal until this point like spectators at a tennis match, but after this Will looks up to see the doctor’s eyes narrow to a sliver. “You placed him in my care, did you not?” he asks, voice perfectly level and icy cold. Will opens his mouth to argue this point indignantly, but Hannibal’s hand tightens just a hair on the side of too tight on Will’s forearm, then loosens before he can actually form the thought that it hurts. Hannibal adds coolly, “It is my professional opinion, Agent Crawford, that Will needs to leave this scene immediately.”

Jack’s seemingly calm waters break, and he stabs his finger in Will’s direction. “He just _attacked_ my murder victim,” he growls.

“She attacked him first,” Hannibal points out, kindly if not a little impertinently. Will looks wildly between the two of them as Beverly, Price and Zeller all smartly take a cautious step back.

“He was about to _bite_ the victim, and would have if you hadn’t stopped him!” Jack exclaims, “I need to know what—who—he _saw_!”

“I believe you just answered your own question,” Hannibal says curtly, before he turns to Will and adds, “Come now, Will.”

Will blinks at the command, but feels his feet spur into movement all the same, led along by Hannibal’s hand on his elbow down the path that they used to enter the scene. Will’s legs feel like jelly, like the power was torn out of him and ripped all of his strength out along with it. He stumbles more than once on the way back down the hill towards Hannibal’s car, blinking blearily at the flashing lights. The gathered officers stare at him, and he ducks his head, allowing Hannibal to lead him away without protest.

At the foot of the hill, Hannibal brings him to a stop at the passenger door of his car. He pulls his keys out of the pocket of his long coat, and presses a button on the fob that brings the engine purring to life. Without a word he reaches around Will and opens the door, pausing to look in the interior with a frown. His eyes flicker back to Will, and too tired to hide Will stares into them, watching as the other man carefully removes his coat and drapes it around him before maneuvering him with gentle presses here and there until he’s folded into the seat.

The wool is unnaturally soft where it brushes against Will’s neck, and his cold hands appear from within its folds to clutch the lapels and draw it closer around him, barely noticing that his frozen fingers are still wearing the blue latex gloves Beverly gave him, and are streaked in gore that transfers onto the dark wool. “I can take care of myself, you know,” Will says, wincing internally at how prickly and ungrateful he sounds, considering that the man just saved him from Jack’s wrath.

Hannibal eyes him for a long moment, the flashing light from a nearby ambulance illuminating his irises with vermilion. Red, black, red, black. He finally smiles, fond, before reaching for the door to close it.

“Of that, dear Will, I have no doubt.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To achieve wholeness, one must acknowledge our most demonic inclinations,” Will quotes softly, something he read once and stored away in some darkened corner of his mind. One corner of his mouth turns up in bare amusement, too weary to stop himself from asking, “Are you repressing any demonic inclinations, or have you acknowledged them all?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which the mysterious doctor does some doctoring, and canon-typical whispered conversations ensue.

Will is once again allowed his silence on the drive away from the crime scene, just as he was on the ride there. His claims of taking care of himself feel sillier and sillier as the ride wears on, dozing off and on in the warmed leather seat of the doctor’s car, sunken into another man’s coat, still shaking hard enough to make his teeth chatter.

He wakes slowly some time later, wrapped in warmth and surrounded by a scent that made him dream of the woods in winter, but with no visible bodies this time.

“Will, we have arrived,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will blinks his eyes open with great difficulty to find them parked in front of the other man’s house once again, alongside his pitiful station wagon. He yawns and attempts a stretch at the same time as he sits up, and a groan of pain escapes his lips at how sore he is.

Hannibal watches him curiously for a moment, before he opens his door, plucking the keys from the ignition before the chiming sound can become bothersome. Cold air floods in as he exits the vehicle, and Will watches as he rounds the front of the car and then appears at the window beside him.

He nearly collapses onto the pavement in an undignified heap when Hannibal opens the door, so much so was Will leaning against it, but he once again catches Will’s arm and hefts him up easily to his feet. They stand there awkwardly for a moment, Hannibal looking squarely at Will while Will tries desperately to look somewhere, _anywhere_ else, before Will remembers himself enough to pat his pockets beneath the coat, looking for his keys.

“Thanks for the ride, Doctor Lecter,” he murmurs, plucking his keys out of the pocket he finds them in and then moving to remove the coat still draped around his shoulders, “I’ll just—”

“Come inside, Will,” the man interrupts, and Will’s eyes flash to him in surprise. If he’s cold without his coat, he shows no sign of it.

“But you told Jack I needed to go—”

“Home, yes, I recall,” Hannibal agrees, as he reaches out to grasp Will’s shoulders and turn him towards the massive, sprawling house. “I do not, however, recollect specifying _whose_ home to which you needed to go, now did I?” he asks, clearly a rhetorical question, to which Will snorts as he’s pushed along. “You need medical attention, Will,” he adds, and it sounds like an afterthought.

“Good thing I met a doctor today, then,” Will retorts, his brow furrowing as he expects to be led to the waiting room and office on the side of the house, but instead is taken directly to the front door.

Hannibal’s eyes are dark once more as he steps aside Will to unlock the door, an almost playful smile on his lips as he repeats, “A good thing, indeed.”

He opens the door and herds Will inside, staring down at Will’s muddy shoes until he kicks them off while pretending it was his own idea, before he reluctantly gives up the good doctor’s coat and much less reluctantly his own threadbare jacket that he wore beneath it, watching as they’re both hung up.

He then turns to take in his surroundings, left to his own devices as the doctor drops both of their keys into a deep wooden bowl sat on a table near the door, then turns to walk deeper into the house without a word. The foyer is decorated similarly enough to the office that he’s not surprised by it; dark colors and even darker wood, a pair of what must be antelope antlers on a long wooden table, surrounded by dark flowers and greenery. Will almost snorts—he might understand a lot, _too_ much, but he’s sure he’ll never understand rich people—before he turns to follow the sounds he can hear echoing from within the warmth of the house.

It doesn’t take him long to find the doctor in a spacious kitchen, miles of dark marble countertops and black cabinets dotted with more stainless steel appliances than seems entirely necessary for one man. Hannibal there among them, running water into a glass basin with his back to Will. He’s somehow managed to shed his jacket and waistcoat, as well as roll up his sleeves and fetch what looks to be an antique doctor’s bag from who knows where in the mere moments that it took for Will to join him.

Will stands off to the side in the kitchen, feeling distinctly lost. He goes to cross his arms protectively over his chest, and is surprised by the sharp flare of pain that it causes. He rolls up his own sleeve to take a look, and frowns down at the deep gouges running the length of his forearm and the way the pain from them suddenly springs to life, as if noticing them alone made them real.

He looks helplessly to Hannibal, who is watching him carefully, as if he holds the answers.

He doesn’t offer any, if he does in fact hold them. “Fetch this bag, please, and carry it through to the dining room,” he says instead as he folds several clean towels over his arm like a waiter and then takes up the basin of water. Will moves to obey without much forethought, crossing the room to gather the worn, soft oiled leather of the bag against his chest, glancing at Hannibal out of the corner of his eye before shuffling slowly through the door across the room the doctor gestured to.

The dining room is every bit as spacious as the frankly gigantic kitchen, walls painted a dark navy, with one wall seemingly alive with shelves and shelves of fresh herbs that fill his senses with pleasant smells almost immediately. Almost as long as the room is wide is a large wooden table with settings for six gathered around it. Will creeps closer to the table, medical bag still clutched against his chest, his eyes drawn to the centerpiece that sprawls across it; a spray of dark vines and deep red flowers dotted with huge black roses. He blinks at the flashes of white settled within and edges closer to investigate, startled and more than a little bit amused when he finds pieces of bone placed carefully among the arrangement, and reaches out with a finger to touch the flat teeth of a deer’s jawbone.

When Hannibal enters the room behind him, he does so with enough noise between the tap of his shoes and rustling fabric that Will suspects it was purposefully done so that he doesn’t startle him. He doesn’t look up from where he’s examining the centerpiece, his smirk audible in his voice when he speaks despite not bothering to turn around so the other man can see it.

“I’m learning that you are more than a bit morbid, Doctor Lecter.”

A soft huff behind him almost sounds like a laugh. “What gave me away, Will?” Hannibal asks as he sets the basin of water at the head of the table, and folds the towels with perfect edges beside it, before straightening to watch Will studying his decoration.

It’s Will’s turn to laugh softly, a rough and quiet sound considering the pain he’s in, sticking his finger into the eyesocket of what looks like a rabbit’s skull, before turning to face the other man. “I had already gathered as much before I saw _this_ ,” he replies, pointing towards the arrangement. “Black roses symbolize death, of course, although that seems awfully trite,” he goes on, smiling tiredly, “And dahlias representing betrayal. And the _bones._ And traipsing around crime scenes for the fun of it. Shall I go on?”

Hannibal smiles and shakes his head, moving a few place settings carefully out of the way before turning to pull out the chair to the right of the head of the table and making a small gesture with his hands for Will to sit. He does, placing the bag on the table next to the basin, and watches as Hannibal lowers himself into the chair next to him. “All humans have a propensity for the macabre,” he says as he reaches into the bag, pulling out a glass bottle of what Will supposes is either alcohol or peroxide—although he wonders just where in the world one would buy such a thing in a glass bottle this day in age. He sets it aside, and then produces a stack of gauze, glancing up at Will with a gleam of amusement in his dark eyes before going on in a thoughtful tone, “Everyone loves a good trainwreck, Will, myself included. We are, as a society and individually, enamored with ruin.”

Will lowers his gaze to the other man’s hands, watching as he carefully unloads medical supplies from the dark depths of his bag. He considers his words, the truth behind them. “Let it all fall down,” he hears himself whisper.

He glances up and catches Hannibal watching him, looking away quickly when he wets his lips and rests his forearms on the table, leaning fractionally closer. Finished with his task, his dark eyes and attention are focused solely on Will, and it’s all he can do not to squirm under their combined weight. “Jung theorizes that our mental health depends on our shadow,” he says, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully, “That a part of us, a part of our psyche, harbors our darkest energies. The more we repress the morbid, the more it foments psychoses and neuroses.”

“To achieve wholeness, one must acknowledge our most demonic inclinations,” Will quotes softly, something he read once and stored away in some darkened corner of his mind. One corner of his mouth turns up in bare amusement, too weary to stop himself from asking, “Are you repressing any demonic inclinations, or have you acknowledged them all?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, but his eyes crinkle just around the edges. Nothing else changes outwardly about his expression, but nonetheless Will can tell he’s impressed; to Will, it’s practically radiating from him. He swallows compulsively, glancing down at the table almost bashfully to escape the doctor’s gaze. His question hangs in the silence for too long, and Will feels his cheeks color. “You are a man of hidden depths, Will Graham,” Hannibal muses finally, before he sits back in his chair and commands, “Take off your shirt.”

“Uh...what?” Will asks, surprised into glancing up once more to meet the other man’s eyes.

“Your shirt, Will,” the doctor responds evenly, “So that I may examine the damage done tonight. The physical manifestation, anyway.”

Will’s brow pinches together slightly at the deliberately unspoken mention of the _other_ damage done, assuring himself as he always has when involved in this sort of work that what he does is worth the mental strain on him. He wets his lips, considers the discomfort of the blood drying against his skin, the scrapes stinging angrily, and then makes a shaky decision. He climbs slowly to his feet, reaching for the buttons on his shirt.

He finds more than one is missing, no doubt somewhere contaminating Jack Crawford’s crime scene. He unbuttons the rest, trying his best not to notice that Hannibal doesn’t even attempt to pretend not to watch as he pulls it free of his khakis and removes it completely. Feeling more than a little self conscious, he folds it haphazardly and lays it across the back of the chair beside his, and then lowers himself back into his seat. Not knowing what else to do with his hands, they hover awkwardly over his lap for a moment before he settles his elbows on the table, forearms outstretched towards Hannibal, palms facing up as if in supplication.

He stares down at the gouges marking his forearms and biceps, left behind by the victim’s jagged nails, and winces with the knowledge that his own DNA will most likely be far more prevalent under her nails than the killer’s. After slipping so seamlessly into the vampire’s mind back at the crime scene, it’s too easy for the lines between his mind and the creature’s to blur once more as he stares down at his blood drying in the scratches; they’re in his skin, and he knows they’re in the vampire’s too. How can he be sure whose skin he looks down at now, and whose he wears?

Cool fingers against his chin stop him from spiraling, the firm grip startling him enough to look up and meet Hannibal’s gaze squarely. In the low light, he notices his eyes are the same color as the blood drying on his skin. Will licks his lips again, staring, and drops his gaze only when his chin is released, watching as Hannibal places a towel in the basin to allow it to soak up the water. The towel is wrung out, before it’s draped loosely over the trenches dug in blood through his flesh. Will has no doubt there’s no real use to the action but to hide them from him for now, to soothe, but it’s working, even as the radiating warmth from the water causes the rest of his bared skin to pebble with goosebumps.

Hannibal’s hands are still moving, and Will starts when the grip on his chin returns, this time to hold him in place. He holds his breath as the doctor lifts a pad of gauze that smells of alcohol to dab at a cut across Will’s nose, presumably from when the dead woman clocked him. Will winces, and he pauses, then continues his work as he says in a low, soothing voice, “From the ashes of death and destruction, empathy often rises. When one agonizes over what could potentially be so cruelly ripped away, it teaches us to love it more.”

Will wets his lips, feeling strangely bereft when the other man’s hands fall away. “Water is taught by thirst,” he replies, matching Hannibal’s quiet tone.

“Just so,” Hannibal agrees, and his eyes glimmer in the light from the chandelier above the table as he meets the younger man’s eyes. He reaches then for Will’s wrists, and as he tugs back the towel his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. Will watches, transfixed, as he goes still momentarily. Still as a statue—a fitting comparison, he reasons, considering his overly chiseled features that seem out of place in this day in age. But then he comes back to life as he releases the breath he was holding, the sharpness of his gaze fading somewhat as he plucks another piece of gauze from the stack and wets it in the basin.

“Immersing oneself in the macabre can lead to insensitivity to the macabre,” he murmurs as he washes the blood from Will’s skin, “Leaving one gawking for a cheap thrill. Or, it can result in trauma…muteness in the face of horror.” He pauses, touching just the tip of his tongue to his upper lip as if in thought, his eyes growing unfocused for a moment so brief anyone else but Will would no doubt miss it. Then, he sits the gauze aside, stained with flaking dried blood, before taking up a fresh one soaked in alcohol and going at the nail tracks dug into Will’s flesh. He barely winces at the sting, too focused on Hannibal’s words to truly feel it as the other man continues, “Somewhere between these two extremes, however, lies the possibility that such morbid curiosity can inspire one to imagine ways in which we may transform life’s necessary darkness into something lighter.” A touch of a smile reaches his eyes as he glances up, seemingly unsurprised to find Will watching his face closely. His fingers tighten ever so slightly on his wrist as he asks, “What is your luminous vision, Will?”

His eyes linger as Will licks his lips in thought, before turning back to his work, dabbing on some sort of salve from an unmarked container and then taking up a roll of gauze that he wraps carefully around his forearm to serve as a bandage. Will doesn’t answer still as the man moves his chair a little closer, turning his attention to the gouges on his shoulder, that have already begun to purple around the edges with bruises.

When Will finally speaks, his voice has gone hoarse. “I can save people,” he says, a stubborn and insistent mantra he has been repeating over and over, mostly to himself, for years. “If I look,” he continues as Hannibal gently cleans his wounds, “I might see something that can make a difference. Maybe save a life.”

Hannibal hums, gathering up more of the salve and applying it to the cuts he currently tends, and Will feels it going to work already, cooling the sting the alcohol left behind. “And this case in particular,” he replies, tilting his chin up as he works, causing the shadows thrown by the dim light above them to fill the hollows of his eyesockets, the space underneath his cheekbones, “If you look, you may see something that will save another human being from the fate that befell your father.”

Will feels himself tense up, unused to hearing someone else speak of the experience that sometimes feels like lives only within the confines of his mind, but he finds the usual rush of anger at the memories doesn’t follow, and he deflates slightly as the other man tapes a bandage on over the worst of the cuts the corpse left behind. “Nobody deserves to die like that,” he hears himself whispering, his eyes lowering to stare at the whorls in the dark wood of the table beneath his spread arms.

“Nobody?” Hannibal replies, his voice light as he sits back in his seat, surveying Will over the short distance between them, “Not even the creature that set you on this path?”

Will glances up at his words, in particular the use of the word _creature_. His eyes narrow, just barely, studying. “You believe me, don’t you?” he asks, almost breathless, even though he’s sure he has already gleaned the answer, from this strange man that has yet to question what Will insists is true. Not in the same way that Jack Crawford does, simply desperate for answers and willing to entertain what he surely believes to be delusions to get them. Hannibal tilts his head, watching him hawk-like, as Will adds shakily, “You’re not just keeping an open mind. You actually believe me.”

Hannibal’s smile is bare, just a slight change in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but under Will’s astute scrutiny is as bright as the sun. “I’ve already admitted that I find my curiosity piqued,” he says, a non-answer.

It’s enough for Will, though; more than he’s ever gotten from anyone else. As he sits shirtless in a stranger’s house, his face aching from a mean right hook landed by a dead woman, Will feels for the first time that he can remember since long before his father’s death a glimmer of hope. “Will you help me find it?” he asks, voice soft and young, much like the boy who felt his father die in his arms years before.

This time, when Hannibal smiles, it touches his lips.

“Yes,” he murmurs simply, eyes dark and fathomless in the low light of his dining room, “I will.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you were just leaving, as you say,” Hannibal replies, pointedly looking Will up and down, his smile widening enough to show sharp teeth, “I'm afraid you are woefully underdressed for the weather.”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal turns up with breakfast while Will happens to be in his underwear, as he is wont to do.

Will awakens late the next day to the sound of his phone clattering onto the floor beside his bed, having vibrated its way to the edge and then leapt off completely. It continues its buzzing, crawling slowly across the scuffed wooden floor, as he lies there with his eyes closed wishing desperately that the fall had killed it.

He pulls his flat pillow out from under his head and squishes it over his face, blocking out both the late afternoon light filtering in through his dirty windows and the sound of the device attempting to get his attention. His head aches, mostly from the exertion of his power the day before, but also thanks to the belly full of wine he had the past night.

Wine has always given him a headache, which is why he prefers whiskey.

The wine had been good, though, and he hadn’t had it in him to complain, really, when the doctor had insisted on feeding him the night before, assuring him he wouldn’t allow him to leave and go home on an empty stomach. Actually, Hannibal had said he wouldn’t allow a _friend_ to leave his house unfed, which had felt much less strange the night before when he was halfway to drunk than it does now in the harsh, cold light of the morning.

The food had been good, despite Hannibal’s insistence that it wasn’t much—something far too nice to be labeled a sandwich, but nonetheless some sort of cold cuts between slices of crusty bread with artisan cheese and a creamy, tangy sauce, served with some sort of fancy fruit salad that is, as a matter of fact, making Will’s mouth water all over again just thinking about it. Hannibal himself hadn’t ate, just sipped his wine and refilled Will’s own until he was just on the verge of too tipsy to drive home.

He had, in the end, and was—thankfully—definitely too tipsy at least to question how reluctant he was to leave the warm, inviting space of the other man’s kitchen. Especially when he had arrived at his own squalid excuse for a home: a tiny, drafty studio apartment in a building full of the transient or downtrodden or those that simply didn’t give a shit about where they laid their heads.

Will felt he fit all three criteria perfectly.

During his pondering of the night before, his phone had gone blessedly silent, but as soon as he registers this the buzzing starts again. With a dramatic huff of irritation he throws his pillow to the side and hangs off the side of the bed, fishing out the device that has vibrated its way halfway under it. Without so much as looking at the screen, he swipes his thumb across it and answers before the call can go to voicemail.

“Graham,” he grumbles, one arm sliding under his pillow to bring it across his eyes again.

“Where the hell have you been?” comes an irate voice, tinny through the tiny speaker.

“Sleeping,” Will sighs, curling onto his side.

“It’s nearly five o’clock,” Jack Crawford barks, “I’ve been calling you all day.” A pause, before he adds, “We’ve got another one.”

At this, Will sighs again. This will be his fourth body, in—he pauses to count—three days. “Just as bad as the others?” he asks, already knowing the answer before Jack makes a sound to the affirmative.

“Worse,” he replies, then adds, “I’ll text you directions.” He promptly hangs up.

Will tosses his phone aside, ignoring its flashing screen, demanding he pay attention to the missed calls and texts and voice messages it holds. He stares at the crack in his ceiling that drips when it rains, cataloging the dark water stains around, before rubbing his eyes hard and climbing out of bed.

He’s just stepped out of the shower, barely having had time to dry off and slip on a pair of undershorts and a t-shirt, when there’s a knock at the door. He stares at it for a moment, considering that the last time someone had knocked, it was the police going door to door due to a rather grisly murder committed on the floor below him. He decides to ignore it, but then it comes again; insistent, yes, but not in the way the cops bang on the door when they want something. He should know, after all.

He shuffles to the door, turns the deadbolt, and opens it. There, on the other side, looking pristine and impossibly out of place in his surroundings, stands Doctor Lecter.

“Good afternoon, Will,” he says cheerily as Will blinks blearily at him.

“What are you...” Will starts, his brows drawing together as he takes him in—a slightly less loud suit on, but no less ridiculous, the dark woolen coat he had placed around Will’s shoulders the night before folded neatly over his arm, and what looks suspiciously like a black soft-sided cooler looped over his wrist. “How do you know where I live?” he asks dumbly, after a good long moment of staring.

“You provided your address for your patient file,” Hannibal replies, smile touching his eyes as he states this, as if showing up at his patient’s home uninvited and unannounced is something he normally does. “Might I come in?”

Will stares at him blankly, before shaking himself enough to nod and step back. Hannibal steps into his miniscule apartment, looking around at the sordidness Will might, if he were being generous, call home, before turning on his heel and making his way to the kitchenette like he owns the place.

“I took the liberty of bringing you breakfast,” he says as he places the cooler on the little kitchen table, folding himself into one of the chairs that he makes look like a throne even as it wobbles unevenly under his weight.

Will is mightily dumbfounded, but nonetheless finds himself crossing the room like a puppy called to its master’s side. He stands across the table from him, his hands clutching the back of another chair as he says, “I...I appreciate this, Doctor Lecter—”

“Hannibal,” he corrects, without looking up as he unpacks a stoneware container and a thermos from within the insulated bag.

“Hannibal,” Will repeats, dragging the name out in a way that causes the doctor to pause in the middle of unscrewing the lid on the thermos to look up at him. “I was actually just leaving,” he says, forcing his eyes away from the other man’s fingers wrapped tightly around the top of the vessel.

“To go meet Agent Crawford at a crime scene,” Hannibal says with a nod, his fingers flexing once more before lifting the lid away. The aroma of coffee fills the air, and Will swallows reflexively with need. “If you were just leaving, as you say,” Hannibal replies, pointedly looking Will up and down, his smile widening enough to show sharp teeth, “I'm afraid you are woefully underdressed for the weather.”

Will’s cheeks color as he looks down at himself, at the faded blue boxer shorts sitting low on his hips, too small from having shrunk in a commercial dryer at the nearby laundromat with a hole torn in the crotch that he prays the perfectly put together doctor cannot see. “I was in the middle of getting dressed,” he argues weakly.

“And now, you are in the middle of eating breakfast,” Hannibal replies, peeling off the lid of the container, and any argument Will may have had left in him flies out the window as the smell within hits his nose. His stomach lets out a shockingly loud grumble, and Hannibal smirks, standing and turning to the cabinets in the kitchenette. “Plates?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for Will’s answer, seemingly content with opening each of the small cabinets and drawers until he has produced a plate and a set of tarnished silverware, along with a mug with a large chip knocked off of the lip.

He returns to the table, and sets up a seating for Will upon it with just as much flourish as he did the night before. Will doesn’t bother to help, since he’d be more than happy eating with his fingers directly out of the container and drinking the coffee right from the thermos, and has a feeling Hannibal knows it. He shoos Will back from the chair he still clutches and pulls it out for him, staring at him patiently until his brain kicks into gear and he moves to take a seat. Hannibal serves his meal for him and pours him a cup of coffee, before taking his perch back up at the seat across from him.

“A protein scramble to start your day,” he explains as Will stares down at the meal in shock. Not because of the way it looks—it looks just as what Hannibal claims it to be, eggs with some sort of meat and brightly colored vegetables folded within—but because of the fact that he’s never once had a real meal in the ramshackle apartment he calls home. It looks out of place on the chipped vinyl of the table where his pizza boxes and takeout containers usually come to die. “Bon appetit,” Hannibal says, breaking him from his thoughts, and as if the words were a command Will picks up his fork and digs in.

“Mm,” he says with his mouth full of fluffy egg and perfectly seasoned sausage, the sound leaving him almost unconsciously. He takes up his mug, sipping sinfully rich coffee, clearing his throat once he swallows to say quickly before taking another bite, “This is delicious.” A few more bites disappear rapidly from his fork before he reminds himself to slow down, enough that he asks curiously, “How did you know I haven’t had breakfast yet, anyway? It’s rather late.”

Hannibal nods from his place on the other side of the table, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded primly atop his knee, watching Will eat with something akin to satisfaction. He looks much as he did the day before in his office when they first met, and Will is quite suddenly struck with the realization that he’s only known this man—who now sits at his kitchen table, feeding him for the second time, who sat at his own dining room table the night before tending Will’s wounds—for just over twenty-four hours.

If Hannibal finds this as utterly strange as Will does, he certainly doesn’t show it. “It was also rather late when you departed last night,” he says, while staying perfectly still in his seat, watching intently as Will spears a piece of sausage by itself, his eyes dipping closed as he savors it. “And I may not know much about what you do, Will, but I can see easily enough that it drains you,” he continues, lifting one hand to gesture neatly to the newly awakened man across from him, stuffing his face in his underwear, “I extrapolated.”

Will pauses in gathering up the last morsels on his plate to look up at him, his expression wry. “Jack called you to come to the scene, just as he did me,” he says, “And instead of coming you made breakfast.” Hannibal doesn’t reply, but his smile lifts the corners of his lips just barely, and sets his eyes alight. Will laughs as he adds, “ _I_ can extrapolate too.”

Hannibal’s smile remains as Will finishes his breakfast, just stopping himself from leaning down to lick the plate clean, but it’s a close thing and it would appear that Hannibal notices. “You should feed yourself better, Will,” he says as he rises and piles the dishes up on one arm like a waiter, looking Will over as he sits half-naked in his chair before adding, “You are terribly thin.”

Will’s mouth falls open to argue, rising to his feet, but stops suddenly as Hannibal places the dishes in the sink and turns on the tap. “I can do those,” he says, coming closer in stilted steps that stop and start as he nears the other man, still painfully aware of how underdressed he is and how Hannibal looks like he’s just stepped off a runway. A runway in a fashion show of suits no other man but him could even remotely pull off, Will is sure, but a runway nonetheless.

“No, thank you,” Hannibal says, taking up a sponge that Will thinks might be leftover from the previous tenant, waving him away as he adds, “Go get dressed. The dead may have nothing but time, but I am sure Uncle Jack’s patience with us is also wearing thin, by now.”

Will nods and goes to do as he’s told, the word _us_ ringing loudly in his ears.

Considering the size of his cramped apartment, he doesn’t have to go far. In the time it takes him to tug a fresh but wrinkled plaid shirt from a hanger in his closet and pull a pair of jeans out of the hamper that aren’t too foul, the rest of Hannibal’s sentence catches up with him. “I’m not _thin_ ,” he protests, stopping to glance at the other man as he stands in the kitchen a few yards away, his expression placid as he washes the dishes. He considers moving to the bathroom to dress, but in the end drops his chosen clothes on the bed and leans down to pull on the pants.

They are, in fact, a little loose around his waist, and he remedies this by cinching his belt tight. When he glances up again, Hannibal is watching him with interest, that bare smile touching the corners of his eyes once more as he points out, “You are not exactly well-fed either, Will.”

Will frowns as he reaches down to grab his shirt, pulling it swiftly over his arms before his hands rise to do up the buttons. “I’ve never been _exactly_ well-fed,” he hears himself saying, while not exactly sure why he’s saying it.

“You mentioned that you grew up poor,” Hannibal replies, turning off the faucet and frowning distastefully at the discolored towel that hangs on a hook near the sink, looking rather reluctant to touch it to dry off his hands. He does eventually, if only to dry his dishes, and Will smirks when he wonders if he’ll rewash them when he gets home, but the thought is interrupted as he asks, “Did you often go hungry, then?”

Will bristles slightly at the inquisition, but nowhere near as much as he’d like to. He finds it all too easy to say while he buttons the cuffs of his shirt, “Often, yes. Did _you_?”

He means the question to be cutting, sure that the aristocratic man in his kitchen has never wanted anything in his life. Hannibal finishes drying the dishes, replaces the sad, limp towel on its hook, before turning to level his gaze at Will. “Not when I was very young,” he answers, and Will can tell without trying too hard that he’s being honest as he adds, “But when I was a little older, yes. I was hungry for a long time.”

All Will can do is nod dumbly, not having expected that answer. He drops to sit on the bed to slip into his boots and tie them, trying not to let his mind wander, both into his own past and to the past of a boy with painfully noble features and an empty belly, wanting.

When he finishes and raises his head, Hannibal is still looking at him expectantly, leaned back against the kitchen counter with his hands knotted in front of him. He looks so comically out of place that Will can’t help but smirk.

“You know who else was always saying I was too thin, and offering to fatten me up?” he asks, standing to his feet. Hannibal merely tilts his head and raises a pale brow. “Old ladies. When I joined the NOPD, I looked like a bag of twigs. Seems like every call I went on, I had someone’s grandma trying to send food home with me.”

“Are you attempting to compare me to someone’s Cajun grandmother, Will?” Hannibal asks, smirking at him from across the room, “Or are you insinuating that I’m old?”

Will smiles, bashful, and shakes his head, the still shower wet tips of his curly hair dampening the collar of his shirt. “Moi?” he asks, in a perfect Creole accent that he’s done his best to shed over the years, pressing a hand to his chest as he adds, “I’d never.” He’s more than a little shocked at himself for teasing so easily, something that is definitely not in his character such as it is anymore, but Hannibal’s small smile is reward enough for exiting his comfort zone so completely. “Anyway,” he goes on, moving to his night stand to gather up his phone and his wallet, slipping them into his pockets, “You’re not _that_ old. And none of those grandmas ever accompanied me to a crime scene.”

“I should think not,” Hannibal replies, and although he had gone very still only moments before, smoothly launches back into action, packing his stoneware bowl and thermos back into the cooler. When he’s done, he takes up his coat, and Will does the same. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing towards the door.

Will hesitates for a moment, considering what he just said. “Is that what you’re doing?” he asks, brows twitching inwards, “Accompanying me to crime scenes, now?” When Hannibal doesn’t answer right away, merely watches Will with that damnable placid expression like he’s waiting on Will to answer his own question, he licks his lips and steps closer. “You’re supposed to be my therapist, you know. Not my keeper.”

“I would never dream to attempt to keep you, Will,” Hannibal counters, “The only good cage is an empty cage.”

Will can’t help but roll his eyes, but he’s smiling as he asks, “So I take it you’re coming as my therapist, then?”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal hedges as he steps aside, allowing Will to open the door to his apartment. The constant cacophony of sound—shouting, doors slamming, babies crying—pours in, having been dampened by the thin walls. Will waits for Hannibal to step out, but the man only steps closer, his dried-blood colored eyes sparkling in the low light from the single naked bulb shining weakly in the hallway outside Will’s door. He sounds particularly sincere to Will’s ears when he tells him, “Or perhaps our roles are fluid, ever-evolving. I will accompany you, Will, so that I may fill whatever role you require of me.”

Will feels himself swallow dryly, unable to look away. It’s true, he supposes, since in the short time since he met Hannibal the man has already been for him a therapist, a medical doctor, a chef, and—according to him, even if Will still can’t quite wrap his head around the idea—a _friend_. Ridiculous—not to mention too good to be true—as all of this feels, the thought still causes something to flutter in his chest and, unbeknownst to him, a sweet flush to color his cheeks. Finding himself without a damn clue what to say, he falls back on his somewhat rusty wit, since the older man seems to enjoy that well enough.

“Hope you’re up for the role of chauffeur, then,” he says with a small smile, turning away from the man still watching him too closely and towards the door, tossing over his shoulder, “You’re driving.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will considers his answer, considers the occupying force in his mind of the creature the night before, remembers the lust for blood, the need to rend flesh between his sharpened teeth that still feels every bit as real as it did then, if he allows it. “It would make most people uncomfortable to share space with someone who shares space in their mind with monsters,” he settles on finally, his smile tight, baring his teeth with their phantom ache at the roots.
> 
> Hannibal doesn’t answer until they reach their destination, until he puts his car in park and turns to regard Will in the flashing lights of a nearby police cruiser. “I am not most people,” he answers, his voice soft and thoughtful, “And I am quite far from uncomfortable, Will.”
> 
> -
> 
> In which the boys visit another crime scene together, this one markedly different from the rest.

Despite the easiness of their conversation in his apartment, Hannibal had fallen mostly silent during their ride to the crime scene. He hadn’t bothered to argue when Will suggested he be the one to drive, and although Will had been joking when he said it, he found that he appreciated the gesture the more closely they drew to the address Jack had sent along with a few other barking texts for him to get a move on. It gave him time to think, and to prepare himself, and after the way the night before had gone, he certainly needed to prepare.

“Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will blinks and turns his head towards the other man who is watching him closely, his eyes off the road for periods of time that probably go beyond the realm of safety.

“Hm?” he asks, having been drawn from his thoughts; thoughts that were all splashed with blood and ringing with screams.

Night has begun to fall, and in the glare of a pair of oncoming headlights, Hannibal’s cheeks look rosier than usual. “Where were you just now?” he asks, and Will straightens from his slump in his seat, reaching up to rub fitfully at his eyes.

“Inside,” he answers after a moment, and Hannibal nods, turning his eyes back to the road.

“Inside yourself, or inside the vampire you seek?” he asks, his tone casual, striking Will yet again with his distinct lack of questioning in his tone in regards to what anyone else would rightfully classify as his delusions.

It makes it easier for Will to answer honestly, instead of concocting a lie to make himself sound less crazy than he’s sure he must be. “Both,” he answers, his fingers still pressing into his eyes, relieving some of the pressure that is already brewing in his skull. “The more I look,” he goes on, his honesty completely uncharacteristic, “The harder it becomes to tell the difference.”

“You take away pieces of the minds you inhabit,” Hannibal infers.

“I do,” Will agrees, eyes turning lazily to watch the shadows of trees flickering by outside his window as they leave the city at a steady clip. After a moment, he returns his gaze to the doctor, asking quietly, “Does that bother you?”

Hannibal smirks in the darkness. “Why would it bother me, Will?” he asks in return.

Will considers his answer, considers the occupying force in his mind of the creature the night before, remembers the lust for blood, the need to rend flesh between his sharpened teeth that still feels every bit as real as it did then, if he allows it. “It would make most people uncomfortable to share space with someone who shares space in their mind with monsters,” he settles on finally, his smile tight, baring his teeth with their phantom ache at the roots.

Hannibal doesn’t answer until they reach their destination, until he puts his car in park and turns to regard Will in the flashing lights of a nearby police cruiser. “I am not most people,” he answers, his voice soft and thoughtful, “And I am _quite_ far from uncomfortable, Will.”

With that, Hannibal exits the vehicle, and Will quickly does the same. It’s the first time he’s bothered taking a look at his surroundings: much like the last two nights, they’re outside the city limits, with tall pines swaying in the cold breeze all around them. There are no houses in the distance this time, however, but they are close enough to civilization that Will can hear cars rushing down a nearby highway. Unlike the last two crime scenes, though, the gathered law enforcement officers and lab techs are not swarming the woods, but rather standing somewhat still, staring at something in the large, barren field before them.

The ground is frozen as Will tromps through it, whatever is left from what crop was harvested in the fall crunching beneath his boots as he makes his way to the group gathered in a semi-circle on the other side of the field. He spares a thought for Hannibal’s shoes—no doubt worth more than several months of his shoddy apartment’s rent—as his feet sink in cold, mostly hardened earth, but doesn’t look back at the other man. He can hear him following him, but more than that, he can _feel_ it. His presence feels warm and solid, bolstering, and Will’s steps don’t falter even as Jack Crawford turns to greet them.

“Finally,” he says, a shitty excuse for a greeting in Will’s opinion. He studies him as he comes to a stop, eyes narrowed. The agent looks quite haggard, no doubt stretched thin by the flurry of murders that keep getting dropped at his feet. The lines in his face seem deeper even in the short time Will has known him, and he’s forgotten his hat somewhere. Will averts his eyes to the sprigs of gray growing in around his temples, and is relieved when the other man’s attention slides to the one following behind him. “Doctor Lecter,” he greets, much more reverently than he offered Will, “Thank you for bringing him.”

Will’s mouth falls into a flat line. “He’s not my keeper, Jack,” he grumbles. Jack ignores him, but when Hannibal steps along side him, he looks faintly pleased.

“I should like to be seeing you under better circumstances than these, Jack,” Hannibal says congenially, and although to everyone else his expression surely matches his somber tone, Will is well versed enough already to note the delighted crinkles around his eyes, which he finds immensely strange. “I shall have to extend another dinner invitation to you and Bella.”

The word _another_ catches in Will’s ears, and he frowns inwardly, stupidly jealous that he’s not the only one here who has graced the doctor’s dining room. He frowns even harder when he catches himself thinking the thought. “What’s going on?” he interrupts gruffly, still frowning, and cuts his eyes towards the gathered crowd. Among them, he easily picks out Beverly in her white lab coat, the flash from her camera illuminating the darkness momentarily in blinding white light.

“See for yourself,” Jack replies simply, and steps out of the way.

Will nods stiffly and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat before setting off to cross the field. He gets barely more than a look from Price and Zeller, who are giving him a wide berth as they make their way back to where Jack stands still speaking lowly with Hannibal, but Beverly at least stops to greet him properly.

“They’re still a little freaked out about last night,” she tells him, smiling crookedly as she points at Will’s eye and adds, “Nice shiner, by the way.”

Will huffs a laugh, looking down at his boots. He had noticed it in passing before he got in the shower, but what is he going to say? He got punched in the face by a corpse. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

“This one as bad as that one?” he says instead, not looking up still, both to avoid her gaze and to avoid looking at the dead body that lies waiting for him a few yards away.

“Yes and no?” she replies, lifting her camera from the strap around her neck and turning it on so the little screen lights up, bathing her face in eerie blue light. She gestures towards it, offering Will a look, but he shakes his head, not wanting to cloud his mind with photographs. “Suit yourself,” she says, but he can see out of the corner of his eye that she’s still smirking when she adds, “Try not to fuck up my crime scene this time. I’ve got enough of your DNA from the last one to clone you.”

Will chuckles despite himself, realizing that he likes her, despite himself. “One of me is more than enough,” he says, still smiling in a slightly pained and self-depreciating way.

“I don’t know,” she replies playfully, “One of you to do this terrible shit, and the other gets to go do something fun? Maybe I’ll clone myself, too, and we can go have a beer while they do our dirty work.”

“Sounds good,” Will answers weakly, woefully unused to such easy camaraderie. He’s almost thankful when she hands him a pair of gloves and then turns away to tromp off in the wake of her coworkers, leaving Will to swim upstream through the crowd of retreating officers until he reaches the body.

 _This_ sort of camaraderie he’s used to. The dead don’t require him to be sociable, and when he wakes them with his touch, the conversations are always blissfully one-sided. He waits patiently until the footsteps of the others fade away entirely, leaving him alone with the corpse, before he raises his eyes and his breath leaves him in a _woosh_.

The scene is, in a word, beautiful.

The body is laid out on a thick log, a fallen tree that fell into the field some time ago, judging by the state of it and the smell of wet, rotten wood that reaches Will’s nose first. On the log a body is positioned, a young man, nude but for a white sheet artfully arranged around him and draped over him, wet and clinging to the muscle and sinew beneath like a gauzy gown. The man’s head and arms are draped over the end of the log, his arms thrown back as if caught in a lazy stretch, his head turned enough to expose the long line of his neck. He would look almost peacefully asleep, Will muses, if it weren’t for the bloody mess of his abdomen staining the white cloth bright red, and deep twin puncture marks marring his throat.

“Hannibal,” Will says softly.

“Yes, Will?” comes the equally quiet reply. He’s not sure when the man joined him, is only sure that he knows he’s there. He knows it in a base, instinctual way, the same way in which he knows when a storm is coming; ingrained upon him over years living in coastal towns while his father chased work from boat to boat.

“Have you seen this before?” Will asks, his eyes not leaving the body of the man and his tasteful sprawl.

Hannibal is close enough that Will can hear the breath he takes in; a sharp inhale that he holds for a moment. Will isn’t sure that he’s said anything to the other man yet that he didn’t immediately have an answer for, but whatever he plans to say is lost anyway with the arrival of Jack Crawford.

If Hannibal had moved to Will’s side like a deer, silently picking his way through the underbrush, Jack should be likened to an elephant, crashing through the field without a care and coming to a stop there beside them breathing heavily from carrying his not insignificant heft through the field. As the two men flank him, all three gazing at the body atop his log pyre, Will is struck with the vast differences between them. While Jack’s mind feels to Will like a mass of swarming black flies, infecting his own thoughts with the sound of his buzzing, Hannibal at his right feels the polar opposite; a placid lake, cool, without a single ripple on its surface.

Faced with the option, he’d quite like to jump into that lake and never come up for air.

There is a third option, however, and Will slowly creeps closer to it; the man sprawled on the log offering a silence of a different kind for him to immerse himself in. He pulls on the gloves Beverly gave him as he goes, the blue latex snapping around his wrists, before lowering himself to a crouch at the dead man’s side.

Unlike the victims he has visited over the last several nights, this man looks remarkably serene and peaceful, his eternal rest looking actually restful. Will studies the man’s face—classically handsome in his features, Will supposes, with his strong jaw and nose, his dark hair close-cropped and his even darker lashes fanned out against his cheekbones. His eyes are closed, adding to the effect that he’s merely sleeping, and Will catches himself reaching out to touch his cheek to see if he’ll wake.

He stops himself at the last minute, aware of two sets of eyes both watching him keenly. Instead, he turns his attention to the bite on his neck. It’s almost amusing, the two puncture wounds, so like what one would see in the movies instead of what he knows to be true in real life. The vampires he has seen in the minds of the other victims, in the mind of his own father, had teeth more like that of a shark: rows and rows of long, pointed, jagged teeth meant to tear a throat completely apart.

His breath comes a little faster as he gingerly touches the marks, almost perfectly round, and follows the thin trail of blood coming from each one, dripping down into the dead man’s hairline. He forces himself to look away, and instead leaves the head and neck area altogether, and turns his attention to the man’s abdomen.

He runs a finger over the torn flesh first, bloodless and pale, parted to expose a thin layer of fat and the red, pulpy muscle beneath. He closes his eyes, visions of what he had seen from the other victims pricking in technicolor beneath his eyelids. His own screams in the victim’s voices as claws dug deep into his insides, rending and tearing for no other reason than to inflict violence and spill blood and viscera onto the forest floor.

He opens his eyes again.

This, he realizes, is not that; this flesh is not torn but rather cut. The organs within are pulled out, bulging under the folds of wet, stained fabric, brilliant reds and purples glistening through the sheer white fabric. His eyes clamp shut again at the memory of feeling his innards being shredded, so real to him in that moment that his stomach clenches with sharp pain and a wave of nausea overtakes him. He presses his wrist to his mouth and looks down at the forest floor until it passes, before rising to his feet and turning to face his companions.

“This is not the same killer,” he says, watching as Jack’s face darkens and his mouth parts to argue, while Hannibal looks on, looking positively intrigued.

“Will,” Jack says, his voice too loud in the quiet of the night, “This man has bite marks on his throat, his insides have become his outsides, and there’s not nearly enough blood on the scene as their should be.”

“I know, Jack,” Will says, his voice climbing a little higher as he adds, “But it’s _not_ the same killer.”

“What are you trying to tell me here, Will?” Jack says, raising one big meaty hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got more than one guy running around Baltimore biting people’s throats and...and doing what with their blood, exactly?”

Will huffs in frustration. “The vampires that killed the others—” he begins, but Jack cuts him off.

“ _Vampires_?” he barks, “As in _plural_?”

“Yes!” Will replies, his voice raised, clenching his fists at his sides, “You don’t seriously think there’s only going to be one, do you?” Jack levels him with a hard look, that clearly says he’s still questioning rather there’s even _one_ vampire to begin with. “Jack, I’m sorry,” Will says, trying to placate the older man before he continues, “But this is not the same thing. Whoever killed this man is _not_ the same creature as the ones that killed the others.” He pauses and looks to Hannibal, who is watching Will with rapt attention, his eyes black as pitch in the darkness. “The others were frenzied attacks,” he says, his words measured to attempt to avoid the hysterical tone that he can feel waiting on the tip of his tongue, threatening to escape, “This isn’t that, Jack...there’s...there’s no frenzy here.”

Jack stares at Will for a long time, before he sighs and shakes his head. “Doctor Lecter,” he says finally, without actually turning his gaze away from Will to the other man, “In your professional opinion, after what happened last night, do you believe it is safe for Will to...do whatever it is he does to this man?”

He punctuates the _whatever it is he does_ with an exasperated flap of his hands.

Will looks at Hannibal, who is still watching him intently. He seems to hesitate, though, for only a moment, before he wets his lips slowly, then says, “I trust Will to make that decision for himself, Agent Crawford.”

Will has quickly grown used to not having much choice in the matter in the short time he’s been acquainted with Jack and his team, enough that he raises his dark brows in surprise at Hannibal’s answer while Jack isn’t looking, but when the agent’s dark eyes move to him again he wipes it all from his face. “Is there any use?” he asks Jack, letting his tone venture into the realm of petulant, “I’m not putting myself through this for you to just call me a liar, Jack.” Jack opens his mouth to argue, and Will raises a hand. “I know you think I’m crazy,” he says, “Hell, I even think I’m crazy. But if I tell you what I see, and you ignore it, you’re putting lives in danger.”

Will knows Jack is thinking back to their first conversation over a murder victim, in the woods not too terribly far from where they stand now. When Jack told him he would do whatever he had to, to keep other people safe. Finally, he nods, and moves to get out of Will’s way.

Hannibal doesn’t even bother, and strangely enough, Will finds he doesn’t mind.

He returns to the dead man’s side in slow, calculated strides, his eyes fastened on the man’s face, still struck by how peaceful he looks. He feels absently sorry that he’s about to wake him from his slumber, a thought that almost brings with it a burble of hysterical laughter. As he comes to stand at the man’s side, dropping down to rest on his knees in the dirt, he comes to eye level with the bite marks once again. With a sigh, he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and reaches within.

After the disaster that unfolded the night before, he has the strangest sensation that his power is hiding from him, having shrank back in the darkness in search of a night off. But no more than the deadly creatures that are apparently lurking around Baltimore take a night off, Will knows a day of rest isn’t a luxury he can afford. And so he coaxes his power out of the darkened corners of his mind, gentle as one might lure a wild animal closer. He feels the static run through him as his mind’s fingers stroke against magic he hides within, raising all the fine hairs on his body.

Unaware that close behind him, watching him, Hannibal feels the same.

A ragged breath leaves Will in a rush as his power grows, a hush settling in the woods around him; no bird or animal, great or small, daring to so much as breathe as the dark magic crackles in the air around him. His eyes are black pools of nothingness when he slowly slips them open, negative space that sucks in all the light around them, and he feels the buzz of electricity in the webs of his fingers as he raises his hand, and ever so gently cups the dead man’s cheek.

On Will’s end, there is the usual rush as his power connects and churns within another body, and he can all but _hear_ it as it zings along the corpse’s nerves, filling his blood vessels and clenching his still heart in a violent spasm. Will and the dead man gasp softly at the same time, two beings merging momentarily into one, until with a violent crackle of energy Will is suddenly _inside_.

_He sighs happily. He’s so goddamn happy he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Everything in that moment is right in the world. Nowhere does there exist pain or suffering. There is only love, no loss._

_There is only pleasure, and he is_ aching _for it._

“ _Please?” he hears himself asking, his voice hungry, desperate. He clenches his fingers, trying to grasp something that he can’t quite get his hands on, and it disappears like smoke whenever he thinks he has it, slipping through his fingers._

 _He hears a laugh as he continues to beg, a low rumble that fills him with warmth, that tastes like honey on his tongue. He laughs, too, because why not? Everything is perfect. Positively_ perfect _._

_He feels weight against his back, cool fingers trailing along his cheek and the side of his throat, and he wants so desperately to look, to see the person who touches him so lovingly, each whisper of his fingertips against his flesh cooing promises into his skin without a word._

_He’s so_ happy _. If he died right now, that would be just fine._

_He must have said it out loud, because he hears the same laugh again, feels it rumbling against his spine. “As you wish,” a voice says, so softly he can barely hear it._

_A brush of lips at his throat, and then pleasure fills him from the hair on his head to the tips of his toes, pleasure and joy and hunger the likes of which he has never experienced. He wants more, so desperately he can’t remember wanting for anything else._

_He would die for it. He_ will _die for it, he knows, as the pleasure reaches a crescendo, and still, he’s never wanted for anything the way he longs for this. This is where he’s meant to be, his destiny._

_As the fangs sink deeper into his skin, he himself sinks into oblivion._

Will comes back to himself gasping, his fingers digging into the dirt in front of him, and painfully, _obscenely_ hard in his jeans. He shakes his head violently as he reaches up to press his palm against his throat, drowning for a moment in another man’s desire. He wrenches his eyes open as he remains bent over, one hand still clasped around his throat and the other dug into the dirt and dry grass in the field, panting and desperately close to coming from his vision alone. He blinks, trying to chase the feeling away, and blinks again at what he sees before him.

“Your shoes are muddy,” he whispers absently, wondering if the Italian leather will ever come clean, and wondering if Hannibal actually owns anything that would be more fitting to wear to a crime scene.

“Will,” Hannibal says in return from above him, but Will doesn’t dare look up, not even when the doctor adds, “You were whimpering.”

Yeah, he bets he was.

“Will—” Jack starts from somewhere behind him.

“Give him a moment, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal says, his accent clipped and brokering no argument. Even collapsed at the other man’s feet, Will can’t help but be impressed. He starts when he feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder, before the doctor asks gently, “Can you stand?”

Will huffs out a laugh, even as he desperately wills his erection to exit stage right. “Can I? Yes,” he answers quietly, “Don’t know if I should, though.” Hannibal crouches down beside him without removing his hand, leans close and takes a deep breath, then huffs a small laugh of his own. “Did you just _smell_ me?” Will asks, completely perplexed.

“In fact I did,” Hannibal replies, and lowers his voice a shade before he adds, “You are aroused.”

“I—You—” Will starts, and hangs his head. There’s very little sense in denying it, and at least the other man lowered his voice enough that Jack can’t hear. “Should I ask?” he says with a laugh, “You know what? I don’t think I even want to know. What the fuck.”

“Language, Will, if you please,” Hannibal replies, sounding put-upon for the first time since he and Will met, and just like that, the spell is broken. Hard to stay hard when you’re being chastised for saying a curse word while kneeling in the dirt in front of a corpse. Will laughs, and allows Hannibal to help him to his feet. He’s smiling, just barely, when Will meets his eyes, and for a moment he’s trapped by his gaze just as surely as he is held by the other man’s hands. His laughter fades abruptly, suddenly finding himself breathless, and he wets his lips and opens his mouth to say something—he doesn’t know, probably doesn’t _want_ to know what—until his stare ventures over the doctor’s shoulder to meet Jack’s, who is clearly displeased to have laughter at one of his crime scenes for the second time in so many days.

Will clears his throat and forces his usual frown back to his lips, which is made all the easier when Hannibal’s hand drops from his arm where it had been resting since he helped him up. “Well?” Jack asks, his voice gruff and short, even more so than usual.

“It’s not the same killer,” Will repeats, even more sure of himself now than he was before he looked. Jack looks ready to argue again, but Will shakes his head. “Jack, it’s not the same,” he repeats, and when he looks up and sees Beverly lurking at the edge of the crowd of law enforcement, he sighs and waves her over. The three of them wait impatiently while she taps Zeller on the shoulder, before she drags him and Price along back to join them by the body.

“Tell him,” he demands once they reach them, pointing towards the body and then pointing with more force towards Jack. “Tell him this is not the same as the others.”

Price raises his brows, still not quite believing Will, but clearly willing to play along. “This one certainly doesn’t look like it was gnawed on by an animal like the others,” he replies.

“Or a vampire,” Will interjects.

“Or a vampire,” Price agrees, albeit reluctantly.

“And we’ll have to get him back to the lab to be sure,” Zeller adds, “But I feel pretty confident these injuries are postmortem, Jack.”

“They are,” Will agrees, shoving his hands back in his jacket pockets and clenching his fists tight, willing himself not to stray back into the mind of the victim, “He died... _happy_. Deliriously so. The others were terrified when they died, Jack. They were in agony.”

Jack reluctantly nods his head, and then turns away to begin barking orders at everyone to finish up with the scene so they can all head back to the lab, for—he makes sure to say within Will’s earshot—some _real_ answers. As he watches everyone disperse with Hannibal still standing faithfully at his side, he finds he still can’t quite shake the headiest feeling he was inundated with in the last seconds of the dead man’s life.

The feeling of being exactly where he’s meant to be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you coming to me now as a patient, Will?” he asks, his head tilting in a way that reminds Will suddenly of a bird of prey, a golden eagle perched on a line while watching a mouse scurry about, unknowing, in the field below.
> 
> “Is there another option?” Will asks, strangely breathless, hearing the question leave him like it’s coming from someone else entirely.
> 
> At this, Hannibal cracks a smile, just a bare upturn of his lips. “A few, I imagine.”
> 
> -
> 
> In which it's Will's turn to show up at someone's house unannounced.

The scent of the morgue still clings to Will’s skin.

It’s in his hair, and he catches a whiff every time he moves; the clinically clean, hospital-like smell, the overwhelming odor of formaldehyde. He had spent most of the night there, watching from the edges of the room as Jack’s team disassembled the newest corpse while the others lay on slabs around it; strangers in life, united in death by the similar circumstances of their demise.

Not similar, though, not really. Will still doesn’t think Jack Crawford believes him.

Hannibal had dropped him off at his apartment after they left the crime scene, excusing himself from venturing with him to the FBI’s headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, citing several patients with appointments that would be waiting on him when the morning came. That fact had somewhat startled Will; although he met the doctor in his psychiatric office only a few days before as a patient himself, he had hardly given it any thought that he would have others that depended on him for his care. The ride had been mostly silent as Will contemplated this, and wondered if the others had experienced the level of care that he himself has so quickly grown accustomed to; a late night dinner, house calls, careful mending of broken skin and torn flesh.

It had been easy enough to ignore the little pang of jealousy the thought brought with it, considering how utterly ridiculous it was.

A night spent amongst the living in their lab coats, squinting at the dead. He’s bone tired, exhausted from three straight nights of bringing his powers out to play, but when he departed in his beat up station wagon for home, home isn’t exactly where he found himself.

He raises his fist to knock on the heavy wooden door, nothing like the terribly thin particleboard of his own poor excuse for a dwelling. In the ensuing silence, he contemplates how exactly he came to be where he currently finds himself, not quite remembering the decision to come here but here all the same.

There is the muted sound of footsteps, and then the door is swept open, and Hannibal tilts his head in surprise when he finds Will standing on the other side. “Hello, Will,” he greets, standing in the shadows thrown from where the midday sun tries to sneak into the opening of his house. He has changed since Will last saw him, in another impeccable suit with nary a hair daring to stray out of place. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”

Will does without a word, entering the office attached to the other man’s house with his hands shoved safely into his pockets, balled into fists against his thighs, shoulders hunched in fatigue. “I’m...uh. Sorry for not calling first,” he mutters as Hannibal closes the door behind him, although he isn’t, not really, and he’s pretty sure that politeness doesn’t matter here like it does outside these walls.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal replies, confirming Will’s suspicions, and he follows as Will wanders further into the expansive room, coming to linger near the ladder that leads up to the mezzanine that rings the room. “My office is for patients, Will,” he says, watching the younger man as he shifts restlessly from foot to foot, “And I find that office hours must be malleable in my line of work.”

“Is that what I am?” Will asks, chancing a glance up at the older man, who he feels is staring right through him, “Your patient?”

It’s a stupid question, Will knows, and finds himself completely at a loss as to why he asked, the words seeming to have sprung to his lips unbidden, though he still refuses to name the thoughts in his head jealousy.

Hannibal, of course, isn’t bothered by his question in the least. He moves— _prowls_ , Will’s mind supplies—closer; closer than is really necessary, considering the size of the room. “You first came to me in the capacity of a patient,” he replies, his keen gaze flaying Will as he takes a step back, his hands shakily leaving his pockets and reaching behind him to grip the ladder when he feels its solid presence at his back. “Are you coming to me now as a patient, Will?” he asks, his head tilting in a way that reminds Will suddenly of a bird of prey, a golden eagle perched on a line while watching a mouse scurry about, unknowing, in the field below.

“Is there another option?” Will asks, strangely breathless, hearing the question leave him like it’s coming from someone else entirely.

At this, Hannibal cracks a smile, just a bare upturn of his lips. He almost seems to glide closer, studying the embarrassed flush coloring Will’s cheeks and the way the younger man practically writhes against the ladder in a weak attempt to escape his studying gaze, before he answers simply, “A few, I imagine.” Will suffers a few long seconds that seem like hours during the other man’s pregnant pause, before he takes a small step back to no longer crowd him and adds, “As I said, my office is always open to patients, Will; but if you have come to me in the capacity of—dare I say—my _friend_ , I must insist you accompany me to the kitchen.”

Will realizes he’s been holding onto his last breath for dear life, and lets it out in a puff that he’s sure doesn’t go unnoticed by the doctor’s keen eye. “And what are your kitchen’s hours, for a friend?” he asks, managing a somewhat pitiful, tired smile, his lips pulled tightly across his teeth.

Hannibal’s smirk turns into an indulgent smile at the sight of Will’s own attempt. “Always open,” he replies, “Come, Will. You look as though you could use a cup of coffee.”

Will feels his shoulders loosen up, ever so slightly. “I kind of feel like I should be offended by that,” he replies, allowing himself to smile wider when the other man turns to go. He stops, though, when Will remembers what arguably brought this visit around in the first place, calling to his retreating broad shoulders, “Hannibal?”

“Yes?”

“Do you...” he starts, glancing at the hundreds, maybe thousands, of books lining the walls of the room. He knows he could have probably—no, _definitely—_ found his answer on the internet at home, on his worn cell phone using the wifi he steals from an unsuspecting neighbor with an easily guessed password. His car tires and feet brought him here, though, when his brain was offline, lost in the memories of a dead man. He clears his throat. “Do you have any books about art in here?”

It’s a strange question for sure, but Hannibal doesn’t so much as bat a fair eyelash. “I’m sure I do,” he answers, although Will’s quite sure the other man has an excellent grasp on what dwells in his personal library. “One moment,” he adds, his shoulder brushing against Will’s as he passes by him on his way to the ladder.

Will turns his head to follow his movements, watches him climb the wooden ladder in precise motions, one hand and one foot moving up a rung, followed by their pairs on the other side, before he forces himself to look away. The floor of the mezzanine creaks quietly under his weight as he moves around, and Will’s eyes fall to the fireplace across the room where the flames dance merrily until he hears Hannibal call his name.

When he looks up, he finds Hannibal looking down at him, and he realizes belatedly that the man must have called for his attention several times before he gained it. Luckily he eventually did, since he doesn’t hesitate before dropping a book from up above that Will catches mostly on instinct, turning it to see the title.

He opens it and peers inside, and then shuts it with a snap. “Not modern art,” he calls up, and tucks the book under his arm just in time to catch another one. He frowns down at it, turning it over in his hands. It’s old, and looks pretty priceless, but Will can’t quite believe it is considering Hannibal just threw it at him. He runs his thumb over the well-worn spine and wonders how many people have poured over it during the years, and wonders if any of them were Hannibal.

“Will it do?” Hannibal asks, and Will starts to realize that the man has all but materialized beside him. He hadn’t even heard him descending the ladder. Hannibal merely smiles at his surprise, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Will hesitates for a moment in the office, staring dumbly after him at the doorway he left open, before shaking himself out of his stupor enough to follow. He doesn’t quite know where he’s going, but he bumbles down a hallway that spits him out into the foyer he remembers from a few nights before, and after kicking off his shoes where he did a few nights before—since he’s pretty sure Hannibal doesn’t want crime scene dirt on his pristine area rugs—he finds his way to the kitchen where Hannibal is already milling about, looking more at home in that room than Will is sure he’s felt anywhere in his life.

Will wanders to the counter as Hannibal removes his jacket, watching the way he almost neurotically folds it before placing it in the seat of the arm chair in the corner of the room. He pauses long enough to roll his sleeves neatly up his forearms then crosses back across the sprawling kitchen to some strange-looking contraption on the countertop. Will absently places the book he had been clutching to his chest with both arms on the marble top of the island in front of him, climbing onto the stool to watch as the other man twists valves this way and that, his smooth brow furrowed in concentration.

Will swallows reflexively as he watches the flex of his bare forearms. He’s still dressed more nicely than Will has bothered with in years—since his father’s funeral, to be exact. He’s still in his waistcoat and tie, but with the lack of jacket, that flash of bare skin, Will feels heat in his cheeks and he averts his eyes, feeling like he’s caught the other man naked. He then feels absurd for the thought, and goes on to torture himself even more with the memory of Hannibal rolling up in his apartment the day before while Will was wandering around in his underwear and the way Hannibal had watched him.

He certainly hadn’t bothered averting _his_ eyes.

His thoughts are interrupted, thankfully, by a burst of steam that makes him jump. Hannibal reaches for a glass mug and bows his head to watch carefully as it fills with coffee. Will swallows thickly as the smell fills the room, the same coffee which Hannibal brought to him with his breakfast yesterday. Like Pavlov’s Dog, his mouth waters, and he watches impatiently as Hannibal pauses to add a small spoonful of sugar to the cup before crossing to him and presenting it to him with flourish that Will knows for a fact the coffee deserves.

He lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, finding it to be wonderful, of course, and the perfect temperature. “Thank you,” he manages to say before taking something closer to a gulp this time, feeling something thaw inside him that had perhaps frozen over in the cold of the crime scene the night before.

Hannibal merely smiles serenely, watching Will enjoy such a simple pleasure, seemingly content to do so without a cup of his own. He hadn’t, Will had vaguely noted, ate or drank much at all in Will’s presence, while Will himself had all but gorged on the delicious dinner and breakfast he had been blessed with. He thinks to ask, but is beat to the punch by Hannibal speaking instead.

“May I ask why you have a sudden interest in the arts?” he says, nodding towards the book sat on the counter in front of Will.

Will snorts. “How do you know it’s a sudden interest?” he asks, teasingly. “Maybe I’m a connoisseur,” he points out.

Hannibal smiles his bare smile, and ducks his head. “Forgive me for assuming,” he replies, but his own lightly teasing tone lets Will know that he isn’t really sorry, which becomes even more evident when he adds, “It is just that, were you a connoisseur, I doubt you would turn up at my home searching for books on art, since you would surely have your own.”

Will concedes to a point well made. He finally sits his cup of coffee down, and turns his attention to the book, pulling it over to rest in front of him. “Do you remember what I asked you last night, at the crime scene?” he asks.

“I do,” Hannibal replies, his expression going strangely blank, reminding Will of the way his breathing had stuttered the night before when he asked the question. “You asked me if I had seen it before,” Hannibal goes on, tilting his head slightly as he adds, “I confess I was curious then, and am curious now, what you meant.”

Will taps his fingers on the book, and then flips open the cover to the first page. “The body,” Will replies, flipping thoughtfully through the pages, “The way it was...arranged. I know I’ve seen it before.”

Hannibal considers this, his sharp eyes on Will as he thumbs through the pages of the large, worn book. “Oh?” he asks lightly, sounding intrigued, but only vaguely, “And you think to find your answer in a book of art?”

Will glances up at Hannibal, before back to the book, flipping past _Oedipus Cursing His Son, The Expulsion of Adam and Eve From Paradise_ , and many others that he cannot name. “Where else would one look for art?” he asks softly, eyes still on the pages that slip between his fingers as he adds, “Besides amongst art?”

“You consider the scenes your killers leave behind works of art?” Hannibal asks, watching Will while he remains intent in his search.

Will shakes his head and looks up at him. “Not _killers_ ,” he corrects, “Killer. Just the one from last night.” He watches Hannibal, expecting some sort of negative reaction, because who in their right mind _wouldn’t_ have a negative reaction to someone calling a gruesome crime scene _art_? Perhaps his new doctor—new _friend_?—isn’t any more in his right mind than Will, considering his look of mild intrigue only grows into a look of medium intrigue.

He looks back down at the book, flips another page, and then stops suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. “Here,” he says, turning the book around to face Hannibal and tapping the open page with his index finger, “I knew I had seen it. I _knew_.” Hannibal’s eyes move over the page in silence for a moment, one fair brow arching ever so slightly higher than its brother. “This is it, isn’t it?” he asks, breathless, “This is what he was trying to recreate?”

“So it would seem,” Hannibal replies, sounding almost breathless as well, and when Will looks up to meet his eyes he finds the other man’s gaze not on the book, but directly on him, looking mildly shocked.

Despite his excitement, Will can’t help his smirk. “You don’t have to look so surprised, Doctor,” he jokes, “I might have been raised a country bumpkin, but all small towns have libraries and not much else to do.”

Hannibal swallows, but doesn’t bother to drop his gaze. “So you are a connoisseur of fine art, after all?” he asks, his voice strangely hoarse.

“A connoisseur of a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Will answers with a proud little smile that feels, but doesn’t look, out of place on his face. Hannibal’s hands are still pressed on either side of the book against the counter, staring openly at him, until Will’s fingers wrap around one of his bare wrists, at which point his gaze falls to the place where their skin touches. “Let me see,” Will says, tugging his hand out of the way without a thought, before grasping the large book and bringing it back in front of him. He flips to the next page, where the information about the painting is printed, and frowns when he finds it to be in French. “Can you read this?” he asks Hannibal.

“Besides working there for a time, you grew up in Louisiana, did you not?” comes Hannibal’s reply.

“Do you ever just answer a question directly?” Will asks, feigning irritation, though his smile is small and fond. “I...” Will starts, then stops to furrow his brow before accusing, “I never told you that.”

“Your accent grows thicker when you are tired,” Hannibal replies, smirking when Will glares.

“It does not,” he argues weakly, which only seems to make Hannibal’s smirk grow into something warmer. He quickly looks away, training his attention back to the book lying open on the counter between them. “I can understand enough Creole to get by, and speak a little as well,” Will finally answers, shaking his head as he narrows his eyes at the words on the page, as if he can get them to rearrange themselves into an order he can actually understand, “Never been very good at reading it, though.”

“And after all that time in the library,” Hannibal admonishes with a smile, plucking the book from Will’s hands and turning it to face him once more. “ _The Nightmare_ ,” he reads, “Painted by artist Henry Fuseli in 1791, depicting a woman in deep sleep with her arms thrown behind her, and with a demonic incubus crouched on her chest. The painting’s dreamlike and haunting erotic evocation of infatuation and obsession was a hugely popular success.”

Will blinks at the way the world _erotic_ rolls off Hannibal’s tongue in his thick accent, and files that away for later. He waves his hand when Hannibal looks up at him, indicating he continue, which Hannibal gladly does. “There are varied interpretations,” he says, frowning down at them before he continues translating, “The canvas seems to portray both the dreaming woman and the contents of her nightmare. The incubus refers to contemporary belief and folklore about nightmares, and contemporary critics were astounded by the overt sexuality of the painting, since it was interpreted by some scholars as anticipating Jungian ideas about the unconscious.”

The sound of Hannibal’s voice reading had lulled Will into a dreamlike state himself, not unlike the woman depicted in the painting, but he blinks hard at that. “ _Jung theorizes that our mental health depends on our shadow_ ,” he quotes softly, “You said that the other night.”

“I did,” Hannibal agrees.

“I need to take this to Jack,” Will says, reaching for the book, but Hannibal slides it just out of his reach and raises a finger to stop him.

“No, you do not, Will,” he says, and when Will gears up to argue, he says patiently, “You are exhausted and hungry. You will allow me to feed you, and then you will rest.”

“I’m fine,” Will replies testily.

“Will,” Hannibal says gently, “You know that Jack has yet to decide if he believes you. Do you think you will help your case, bursting into his office and waving a book around?”

Will frowns. “I wasn’t going to _wave it around_ ,” he argues weakly.

Hannibal merely smiles, before turning away from him to move towards the stainless steel refrigerator behind him, the width and depth of which when he opens it is just about as spacious as Will’s apartment. “Why don’t we discuss this further over dinner, like friendly adults,” he replies, playfully, “Perhaps together we can get a better look at the vampire—or should I say, _vampires—_ you seek. Then, you may take our findings to Uncle Jack.”

“Fine,” Will replies with a sigh, leaning on the counter to watch as Hannibal begins assembling ingredients by the stove. “What’s for dinner?” he asks.

“Something simple, I should think,” Hannibal replies thoughtfully, staring into the depths of his refrigerator with a slight frown creasing his brow. He seems to come to a decision, and reaches for a vacuum sealed package of meat. “Kidney, in a sherry sauce atop a lightly grilled crostini,” he announces as he reaches for a pan from the cupboard.

“Simple,” Will says with a short huff of laughter, “Simple for me is ramen noodles.”

Hannibal pauses to glance over his shoulder at him, a pained expression on his face. “Will, please,” he says, in the same tone he used to chide him for his language the night before.

“Or I grab a burrito at a gas station,” Will adds teasingly. Hannibal looks as though he might burst into flames at the thought, and so he decides to cut him some slack and not mention Burger King. Instead, he leans against the counter and asks, “Can I help?”

“You may choose a bottle of wine,” he replies, leaning down to open a cabinet below the counter which reveals what looks to Will like a mini-fridge, “And then you may pour us both a glass, then return to your seat and relax.”

Will doesn’t mention that he knows next to nothing about wine pairings, and instead does as he’s told. Or tries to, at least, rounding the kitchen island to open the door to the little refrigerator and staring dumbly inside until Hannibal takes pity on him and stoops to retrieve a bottle labeled Cabernet Sauvignon in bold typeface, then opening a cabinet above the counter so that Will may take down two sparkling wine glasses. He considers that he’s not really helping, but does manage to fill the glasses three quarters of the way full without assistance, nudging Hannibal’s closer to him where he is freeing the meat from its plastic cocoon, and taking up his own glass to return to his stool to watch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had kidney before,” Will says as he takes a sip of his wine, surprised by the crisp and not too sweet taste. Hannibal pauses in his work to take up his own glass, swirling the contents before lifting it to his nose to take a deep whiff, before tasting it himself.

“This country is the only one I have lived in where sweetbreads are not widely consumed,” he says, returning his glass to the counter before filling the pan shallowly with water. “It is quite wasteful, in my opinion, but wasteful is the American way.” He leaves Will to ponder this while he sets to work with a sharp knife, removing the membranes from the pair of kidneys with deft flicks of the blade. A series of questions pop into the younger man’s mind; wondering what other countries the man has lived in, where he’s from. Despite Hannibal’s distinct lack of caution when it comes to lobbing personal questions in Will’s direction, he finds himself reluctant to do the same; allowing him to keep his air of mystery with his eccentric clothes and thick accent.

Perhaps, Will admits, he might just like him that way.

“One must allow the meat to sweat before cooking,” he explains as he sets the pan up to do just that, “Allowing it to release its impurities.”

“If only it were so easy to rid myself of impurities,” Will comments, watching as the other man leaves the meat alone to instead bring a long, narrow loaf of bread from the counter to the cutting board, selecting a serrated knife from the block in front of it. “If that was all it took,” Will continues ruefully, “I would wake up the picture of purity every morning.”

“Nightsweats, Will?” Hannibal asks, lowering the knife to the bread and cutting it at an angle to leave it in perfectly even oval slices.

“Nightmares,” Will replies, staring down at his wine as he tries to mimic the way Hannibal swirled and then sniffed it, though it just smells like wine to him. He’s all too aware that Hannibal has been watching him, and ducks his head as he takes a sip then replaces the glass on the counter.

Hannibal turns back to the stove, his broad back to Will, blocking whatever it is he’s doing in the pan. “You allow the dead to share space in your mind during your waking hours,” he says as Will watches the movement of his shoulders under the fabrics of his shirt and waistcoat as he works, “Do they follow you home, Will? Do you allow your monsters into your bed?”

Will swallows, shocked into silence momentarily at the way the question is worded. “I don’t invite them there,” he says after a moment, licking his lips before he adds, “But they come, all the same.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply, instead concentrating on preparing the meal; putting the bread into the oven to toast and rinsing the kidneys before adding them back to the pan with a splash of sherry. Will swallows compulsively as the fragrances fill the air, his stomach giving a mighty rumble at the scent of cooking meat and warm bread. Hannibal was right, he really is starving.

He remembers the man from the night before, and his hunger; all-consuming and desperate. He remembers the man’s body, laid out on the log that served as his bed, the dark colors of his organs visible beneath the damp, sheer white sheet, and wonders what it says about him that, even while the memory dominates his thoughts, his mouth waters at the smell of organs crisping up in Hannibal’s pan. Food that the other man insisted on feeding him, satiating the hunger he can probably smell on him, since he smelled his arousal on him so easily the night before.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Will mutters to himself, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

“Will?” Hannibal says, pausing in the middle of picking up a plate. The second plate is already balanced on his arm, and Will abruptly realizes he had gone inside, long enough that Hannibal finished cooking and fixed their plates. He shakes himself, shaking the ravenous hunger he feels particularly that he’s fairly sure is mostly that of the dead man’s, and not his own.

He shakes his head, and thankfully Hannibal doesn’t ask.

Instead he indicates the door to the dining room with a noble incline of his head. Will picks up his glass of wine, crosses the room to pluck up Hannibal’s as well, and then makes his way through the door. He takes the same seat that Hannibal chose for him when he had last sat at his table, bruised and bleeding: to the right of the head of the table. Hannibal leans in close enough that Will can smell him—herbs, expensive cologne—as he places his plate in front of him, beside his half-full glass of wine.

“Looks great,” Will says honestly as Hannibal takes his seat next to him, taking in the cuts of meat laying atop the little circles of toasted bread, and the completely unnecessary decoration piled on the edge of the plate.

Hannibal looks baldly pleased, even at such a weak compliment. “We feast first with our eyes,” he says, looking at Will expectantly until he gathers up his silverware, even if picking up one of the slices of crostini with his hands and shoving it into his mouth whole just to gain a reaction from the doctor crosses his mind. “Taste feeds our other senses, and our bellies, but sight feeds the brain,” he goes on, watching Will openly as he cuts a neat slice with his knife, and gathers a bite onto the tines of his fork.

Hannibal is staring openly as Will takes a bite, his eyes glittering in the shaded light of the chandelier above the table. “Good,” he manages to say, struggling not to speak with his mouth full. His hunger—truly his own for sure this time if the delighted growl his belly lets loose is any indication—ramps up a few notches as the flavors and textures explode across his tongue. He can’t help but close his eyes to enjoy it, and when he opens them he meets Hannibal’s eyes and says, “All my senses are going well fed since I’ve met you.”

The words echo in Will’s ears, and Hannibal lets them go unanswered for a terribly long time, it seems, as Will looks studiously down at his plate and pretends he can’t feel the blush rising on his cheeks. When he chances a glance up through his lashes, the other man looks obscenely pleased, his smirk remaining in place even as he takes a sip of his wine.

“How did you know of the painting, Will?” he asks when he replaces it by his plate’s edge, taking up his own knife and fork in his slender fingers. Will blinks, shocked by the sudden change in subject, both surprised and grateful that the other man doesn’t intend to embarrass him further than he’s already managed to embarrass himself. All the same, once he gathers himself enough to do so, he manages to give the other man a prickly look that must convey well enough what he’s thinking. “I have already admitted you are a man of hidden depths, Will,” he says with a smile, looking down to carefully assemble a bite from his plate, pausing with it perched on his fork to add, “I meant, why did that particular painting stand out in your mind?”

Will smiles, takes another bite, and chews it thoughtfully. “You’d be a shitty psychiatrist if you really had to ask,” he says once he swallows, smirking lopsidedly at Hannibal’s displeased expression at such language at his dinner table, finding that he enjoys bringing that look to the other man’s handsome face entirely too much to stop. “You’re not that, though,” he adds hastily, washing the delicious food down with another swallow of wine that is probably too close to a gulp to be considered proper, his fingers lingering around the stem of the glass as he lightly teases, “So that means you just want to hear me say it.”

“Very astute of you, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal replies with a sly smile.

Will absently caresses the base of his glass as he thinks, drawing Hannibal’s attention to his fingers. “It reminded me of myself. I’ve always had nightmares, as long as I can remember,” he says after a moment, his voice soft, his words hesitant, “Long before I knew what I could do.”

“And what is it that you do, Will?” Hannibal asks, matching Will’s quiet tone.

“You know what I do,” Will replies, “You’ve seen what I do. I suppose you just want to hear me say this, too?” Hannibal merely smiles and takes another small bite of his dinner, looking at Will expectantly. He sighs, reaching up to run a hand over his stubbly beard in exasperation. “I’ve never been able to explain it to anyone,” he says finally.

“Have you ever truly tried?” Hannibal asks simply.

“No,” he whispers finally, lowering his gaze to his food, “I suppose I haven’t.” He falls silent, twirling the tines of his fork through the streaks of sauce artfully placed on his plate. “I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin.”

Hannibal smiles, sitting back in his chair. “From the beginning, perhaps.”

“I feel like we should be in your office for this,” Will informs his plate.

“If you would feel more comfortable there.”

“Nothing about this makes me feel comfortable, Hannibal,” Will says, perhaps a little more sharply than he meant to. He swallows harshly, and reaches for his wine, taking another large sip. He swishes it around behind his teeth, his eyes narrowed on the dark wood of the table in front of him, considering. For the first time in his life, he’s met someone who doesn’t question his truths. He could tell him everything; truly from the beginning, to his father’s death, to everything that happened afterward, and he knows without question that the doctor wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

It’s freeing, he realizes, just as much as the knowledge presses around him and makes him feel as though he cannot draw a breath. It’s something that he’s always wanted, without allowing himself to acknowledge that it was something he wanted at all. Understanding. Acceptance. He had often wondered who, exactly, could accept him; who in their right minds could possibly begin to understand him, believe him.

He certainly never thought he would find such a person in yet another mandatory psych eval.

He takes so long to begin that their food grows cold, but Hannibal doesn’t complain, despite his complaints regarding waste just before they ate. Instead he clears the table, leaving Will to his thoughts. He all but pries Will’s now-empty glass from his fingers, and heads back towards the kitchen.

By the time Will realizes how rude of him it was not to offer to help with the dishes and belatedly trails into the kitchen with contrite, hunched shoulders, Hannibal is finishing drying the last glass. Will stands by the island as he puts the dishes away, staring down at his socked feet until he feels Hannibal place a guiding hand on his lower back, gently pushing him towards the door.

He doesn’t take him to his office, however, instead leading him to a sitting room. It’s smaller, but no less filled with warm wood and overstuffed furniture and shelves lined with books. As Hannibal moves to the liquor cabinet to pour them a drink Will springs into action, making himself useful by building a fire in the fireplace.

He stands once the fire is crackling in the grate, turning to find Hannibal standing just behind him. He wonders at it idly when he doesn’t startle this time from his sudden presence so close, and instead takes the cut crystal glass he offers, their fingers brushing as Will’s wrap around it.

“From the beginning?” he asks, his voice quiet and unsure and just a hair short of shy as he looks down into the amber liquid within.

“From the beginning,” Hannibal affirms, the firelight catching in his dark eyes and turning them from dried blood to fresh; fresh as the blood that coats the walls of Will’s mind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We were both introduced to death at a young age,” he says finally, reaching out to run a finger over some random book’s spine as he lifts his glass and takes another drink.
> 
> “So it would seem,” Hannibal replies, his voice still a shade hoarser and his accent thicker than normal. “When did you become acquainted with death, Will?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which whispered secrets are traded by firelight, whiskey is shared, and insights are gained by both parties.

“What were you like as a child?”

Hannibal gives Will’s question a moment’s thought, standing next to him in the warmth of the roaring fire. The light flickers over the sharp angles of his features, illuminating him and casting him in shadow in turn. Will finds he doesn’t want to tear his eyes away from him, and so for once, allows himself to simply _look_. The heat warms one cheek as they stand side by side—drinks in hand, elbows brushing—Will’s head turned to watch Hannibal in this rare occasion where the other man isn’t looking back and right through him.

The other man’s eyes are unfocused as he stares into the flames, as if he is lost in the past Will asked about, and he is still as a statue. “Strange,” Hannibal replies after a moment, his voice thoughtful, coming out of his stasis long enough to lift his glass to his lips for a sip.

Will smiles and ducks his gaze to his own glass, the light from the fire catching in the amber liquid and fracturing into shades of orange and red. “Me too,” he says softly, taking a slow draw of his own drink and wetting his lips to taste its sweetness after he swallows. “Strange and lonely,” he goes on, his eyes downcast, lost in his own thoughts. “It was just me and my dad. No other family left...he was an only child and so was I. We never stayed in one place long enough for me to make friends. He worked a lot...he had to, to try to keep food on the table. I was left mostly to my own devices.”

Hannibal hums thoughtfully, his gaze sharp in the low light of the room when it finally swings in Will’s direction. “A strange little boy, always in a strange place,” he murmurs, bursting into motion to cross the room and take a seat on one end of a plush leather sofa. Will feels his absence beside him more acutely than he’d like to, and turns his back to the fire to face him. He watches as Hannibal crosses his legs at the knee, and places his drink on the table beside him, although his fingers linger there, idly tracing the etchings of the crystal as he asks, “What were your own devices, Will?”

He smiles sadly, reaching up to scratch at his stubble before making himself turn half away, propping his elbow on the mantle over the fire he built. “Wandering,” he says after a moment, his eyes dropping to watch the flames dancing merrily, “Reading. Learning. Even when I wasn’t in school, even in the summers.”

“It provided an escape,” Hannibal says, and it sounds as though he knows from experience.

Will nods. “And a distraction,” he agrees, “Even in my earliest memories, I was aware that I saw more than I should. Like...subtitles in a foreign film. I might not have understood what was going on on the surface, but there was another level, one that I understood. It made people wary of me, even my father. _Especially_ my father.”

“Because you could see beneath his surface,” Hannibal guesses.

“He was a good man,” Will says, staring into the fire until the brightness of it burns his eyes, “He was a good father, or the best he knew how to be.” He wets his lips, takes a bigger sip of his drink, feeling the sweet, oaky flavor of it warm his throat and then his belly, matching the warmth of the fire from the inside. “But he was an angry man, and an even angrier drunk,” he adds softly, only vaguely aware that he was speaking thoughts he’s carried with him his whole life for the first time aloud. “Angry at himself,” he whispers, “For driving my mother away, which was ridiculous, of course. I’ve always known it was me.”

“How so?” Hannibal asks when Will falls silent, lost in his thoughts.

“She must have known something was wrong with me,” Will says, shaking his head slightly, his features weary and pressed into a dark expression that has come along with this train of thought since he was entirely too young to be thinking of such things. “Mother’s intuition, and all that.”

Hannibal’s fingers still trace over the edges of his glass, lazily, almost unconsciously. “Not all mothers were meant to be mothers,” Hannibal replies thoughtfully, and when Will looks to him, he finds the shadows thrown by the fireplace to have cast his face in stark relief; light and dark, light and shadow, settling deep in the hollows of his eyes and cheekbones. “Just because we are able to reproduce doesn’t mean that we should.”

“Have you ever?” Will asks, still standing idly by the fireplace, although his gaze has sharpened on the other man as he presses, “Reproduced?”

If Hannibal is surprised or put off by such a personal question, he has the good grace not to show it. Instead he answers honestly, seemingly at ease with the back-and-forth, with sharing some of himself in order to peer deeper into Will. “I had a sister,” he says, his voice soft but tight, and although Will has his attention, his gaze seems far away as he adds, “She was not my child, but she was my charge.”

“Was?” Will asks, catching the use of the past tense, and lacking the social grace not to pry.

Hannibal wets his lips. “She died when she was young,” he answers after a moment, looking away, “It was a very long time ago.”

Will feels hurt prickle through him, absorbed from the other man across the room. He thinks to apologize, for the death of a loved one long since gone, for snooping into the other man’s past, but in the end feels sure Hannibal would not appreciate it. “What was her name?” he hears himself asking instead, his voice barely breaking a whisper.

Hannibal closes his eyes, and whispers back reverently, as if uttering a prayer.

“Mischa.”

“Mischa,” Will repeats just as softly, lovingly, tasting the name on his tongue. He finds it tastes of sunlight, of birdsong, of tinkling laughter heartbreakingly sweet.

Hannibal’s eyes open abruptly, fastening on Will, his expression as blank and unreadable as ever but his gaze churning with too many emotions for Will to name. He can’t name them, but he _feels_ them; inundating him with longing, pain, and a stone-cold rage that brings his breath stuttering to a sudden stop. Then Hannibal blinks, and it’s all gone as quickly as it came. “Forgive me, Will,” he says, dropping his eyes to stare into the fire as he takes a shaky breath, “It has been a very long time since I have spoken of her; longer still since I have heard her name spoken aloud.”

When Will breathes again, and he swears that the air he takes in feels colder, even with the fire burning so brightly beside him. He still feels pinned in place by the way Hannibal looked at him, and so he forces himself to move; walking along the perimeter of the room to peer at the books lining the shelves. “We were both introduced to death at a young age,” he says finally, reaching out to run a finger over some random book’s spine as he lifts his glass and takes another drink.

“So it would seem,” Hannibal replies, his voice still a shade hoarser and his accent thicker than normal. “When did you become acquainted with death, Will?” he asks, no doubt relieved to lob the ball back to Will, having ventured entirely too far into his own side of the court for his liking.

“Trying to make a friend, of course,” Will replies with a sad smile. He moves further into the room, stopping at a statue of an elk placed atop its own small table. He reaches out with the hand holding his glass to touch the tines of an antler with his fingertip, testing its sharpness. “One afternoon in the dead of winter,” he says, quietly, “I was in fifth grade, walking home from school. Dad had moved us up north...he was working on boat motors by Lake Erie. It was cold, much colder than I was used to, and he hadn’t had work steady enough to get me a coat yet. The days were short, and I was cooped up in school and restless. I decided to wander home through the woods...a shortcut of sorts, to the place he had rented in some shitty, run down trailer park.” He shakes his head abruptly. “That’s not true,” he amends with a tight, apologetic smile. “The truth is, there were some boys from school playing down the road on my way home. They had teased me...y’know...for being the new kid. Being scrawny and wearing glasses and being generally weird.”

Hannibal hums again, his eyes on Will’s back. “Walking into the unknown was preferable to going another round with them,” he says, understanding.

“Yeah,” Will huffs a humorless laugh, and continues his circuit of the room. “Anyway. I found him there, in the woods, amongst the bare trees and dead leaves and grass.”

“Death?” Hannibal asks, with a note of amusement.

Will stops to shoot him a wry smile. “Someone Death had visited, at any rate,” he replies. “There was a body in the woods. A homeless man...fairly fresh, and well-preserved by the cold, all things considered.”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You had that in common,” he says levelly, “Vagrancy.”

Will blinks in surprise and swallows hard at the doctor’s astuteness. “Homeless,” Will whispers, managing a nod, “Even if I did have a home at the time.”

He can tell his words resonate with Hannibal, even if he doesn’t know enough about him to understand why.

He leaves the elk behind, finishing his circuit of the sitting room and with nowhere else to go, drops heavily to sit on the sofa with Hannibal. He takes a deep drink of his bourbon under the other man’s watchful eye, and focuses his gaze on the glass cradled between his hands. “I sat with him. I talked to him,” he admits, eyes still downcast, ashamed to confess the depths of his strangeness to someone else, even to Hannibal. He wets his lips, considers backtracking, and dismisses the thought just as quickly as it came. “Not just that day,” he goes on, decided, “I came back every day after school that week. I _looked forward_ to it. With him, for the first time in my life, I found true peace and quiet. I found someone that would listen, without clouding my thoughts with their own. There were no subtle tells screaming at me, no judgment lurking silent behind supposedly impassive eyes.”

It’s not lost on him that he could just as easily be describing Hannibal as he describes the dead man that became his first friend; when he looks up, expecting to see pity in the least, horror at the worst, he finds the man only watching him expectantly, absorbing all that he is told. Will takes another deep breath, and reaches up to press his thumb and forefinger into the inner corners of his eyes, watching the stars appear behind his lids. “I told him things I had only thought, and had never dare spoke of,” he whispers. “I told him that I missed my mom, even though I never knew her. I told him that I was sure my dad held her leaving against me in some way, even if he would never admit it. I told him how hungry I was...how our cabinets had been empty for a week, and that my dad had spent his paycheck on yet another bender. I told him how sometimes, at night, I would wake up and go check to see if he was still breathing, or if he had finally drank himself to death. I told him that sometimes, when things were really bad, I wished that he would.”

He falls quiet, struck by the horror of his boyhood thoughts spoken aloud in a bare whisper that seems as loud as gunshots in the silence. He stares down at his socked feet against the plush rug. Hannibal remains as eerily silent and still as the dead man did, all those years ago. “Say something?” he whispers, wondering if he’s finally managed to scare Hannibal away after all.

Hannibal smiles, and finally comes out of his stasis long enough to take a sip of his drink. “Did you ask the same of your friend in the woods, Will?” he asks lightly, licking the bourbon from his lips.

Whatever Will was expecting him to say, to ask, it certainly wasn’t that, and it’s enough to shock a sharp chuff of laughter from him. His own eyes glittering, he looks up and meets Hannibal’s dark eyes, darker now than their usual dried blood in the flickering shadows. He’s not horrified, he’s not running away. Instead, Will finds amusement gathered in crinkles at their corners, his expression as he looks upon Will expectantly unbearably... _fond_.

Will is struck with the realization, swiftly and suddenly, that he may be falling just the _tiniest_ bit in love with this man who is nearly as strange as he is.

He shakes his head and clears his throat, as if that does a damn thing for the flame of understanding now flickering against the inside of his ribs. “I did, as a matter of fact,” he admits, when he can trust his voice again.

“And did he?” Hannibal asks, “Say something?”

Will smiles tightly, releasing his glass to rub one clammy palm against his knee. “He was as silent as the grave,” he replies, spreading his fingers against the denim of the jeans he’s been wearing for over a day, now. He smiles ruefully and looks up at Hannibal, meeting his dark gaze as he adds, “Until he wasn’t.”

“You woke him,” Hannibal surmises, tilting his head slightly to the side, peering at Will across the sofa they share.

Will bites his lip, looks down again. “I had visited with him for days, but I had kept my distance,” he answers, his voice soft, easily losing himself in the memory. Scents tease at him; the cold winter air, smelling of snow sure to come, the dead leaves, the putrid scent of death that even the frigid temperatures couldn’t hide. “I was afraid, of course...no matter how weird of a kid I was, I had never seen a dead person before. But every day, I sat on the cold ground a little bit closer.” A pause, a breath taken and released in a visible puff of air that hangs around his face before disappearing, carried away by the icy wind gently ruffling his hair. “One day, the last day, I reached for his hand.”

“What happened when you touched him, Will?” Hannibal asks, his accented voice soothing, pitched low enough not to startle Will from where he is in his mind, sitting on the cold earth with his small hand wrapped around frozen, dead fingers. Hannibal is there too, Will realizes—in his three-piece suit and tie, watching over him like a comforting shadow, the likes of which Will at the time didn’t know yet could even exist.

Will smiles a shaky little smile. “I felt a jolt run through me...I didn’t understand it at the time, of course,” he whispers, shaky and breathless as he searches for words to do the memory justice. “It felt like...it felt like a river running through me, a river that had been dammed up all my life so far, but suddenly that dam was broken and the current was able to pour through again. It felt like rapids, but _alive_ ; swirling and racing through me. His fingers twitched,” he says softly, and the frozen fingers in his hand do just that. His young, smooth brow furrows as he looks down at them and whispers, “I thought I imagined it, at first.”

“Did you run?” Hannibal asks, matching his quiet tone.

Will smiles again, looks up at him from his place on the forest floor. “That’s what a _normal_ child would have done, isn’t it?” he asks.

Hannibal gives an elegant shrug of one shoulder, hidden beneath fine linen. “Perhaps,” he answers, “Although I don’t believe you did.” He pauses, thoughtful, and then adds, “I don’t believe I would have either.”

This admission of shared weirdness makes Will smile, and his vision of the past fades seamlessly back into reality again. He downs the rest of his drink in one go, humming at the warmth that fills him. Hannibal is already reaching for the bottle to refill his drink, and when Will turns in his seat to offer him his glass, his head swims slightly with the movement. It must show on his face, because as the dark liquor catches the firelight as it flows to top him off, Hannibal smiles just enough to show the tips of his white teeth, and he is _beautiful_.

Will realizes, belatedly, that he may be a _little_ drunk.

In the end, that makes it easier, even in another’s presence, to close his eyes and call the scene back to him. Little by little he sets the stage in his mind. The trees, bared of their leaves by the cold, wet wind blowing off the nearby Great Lake. The same wind rattling through the branches that tremble like spindly fingers plucking notes on a string instrument. The ground, frozen over from the wet summer, with the soft, spongy layer of rotting leaves and dead grass atop it. The frozen fingers in his hand, twitching with life that he has unwillingly shared; a part of himself tapped into that he didn’t know existed until that very moment.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in the woods; this time as he is now all these years later, grown and weary from the decades that have passed. Hannibal stands beside him where he kneels in the dirt, appearing to Will as he sits beside him now, his shirt sleeves still rolled up his strong forearms, his hands tucked into his pockets. Observing quietly, taking in the sight of Will, of the dead man whose dark skin has gone purple in death, the scruffy strands of his long beard, shot through with gray, moving with the change of the wind.

“I didn’t run,” Will says to him, his soft voice nearly carried away by the wind in the clearing in a way it wouldn’t be, were they still in the sitting room. “I came closer,” he whispers, rising up on his knees, “I don’t know why I did it, even now...but I touched his face.”

He raises his hands—his adult hands, with all their little scars from a life lived and fine hair dusting his knuckles, not the hands of a child with barely ten years of life under his belt. His fingers brush the dead man’s cheek, before he flattens his palm against it, and although at this point in his life he expects it, he still hears the child he was taking a frightened, pained breath in the same moment that the dead man wakes with a gasp.

His eyes are glassy white, and they roll around in his head as his body twitches violently, before they land on Will’s shocked face. “Did I fall asleep?” he asks hoarsely, his voice echoed by the sound of Will’s own, repeating the dead man’s words in reality to the only person he’s met in his entire life who cared to even ask, much less listen.

“You were dead, mister,” Will tells the man in a voice that no longer sounds like his own. Younger, higher, terrified, “You still _are_ dead.” He remembers perfectly all the thoughts that raced through his youthful mind then, as the reanimated corpse blinked at him. It didn’t take him long to land on a question, though, and he remembers asking it in a voice that surprised him with how little it shook. “What’s it like to die?”

The corpse takes a ragged breath and lets it out, and Will wrinkles his nose at the smell. “Depends on how you die, I reckon,” the man replies, his hoarse voice holding an obvious southern twang that reminds Will of warmer weather, nicer people and better food. The man seems to think for a moment, before he adds in a tired voice, “I think...I think it felt like going home.”

Will felt it then, pushing into his mind; some other life this man had led before this one that left him to die alone in the woods in a strange place so far from home. A life where he had a whole family that loved him, food on the table, warm arms to hold him at night. Even after all the time that has passed, the image shocks Will into pulling away like the man had burned him, watching the life recede from him until he was once again just a corpse rotting in the woods. Will’s breath comes in pants, shocky and afraid, in both realities he exists in simultaneously, until a hand on his shoulder stills everything and he’s in a sitting room again in Baltimore, the cold of the woods in Pennsylvania chased away by the warmth of the hearth, a fire he built with his own hands.

The hand is still on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Hannibal is much closer on the sofa than he was before Will got lost in the past. When he catches Will’s gaze, he says softly, “You were not horrified by what you had done, were you, Will?”

Will trembles, stares, and then slowly shakes his head. Hannibal’s hand is still on his shoulder, and when his thumb brushes his neck, Will’s breath stutters. “No,” he finally says, his eyes wide and luminous in the flickering darkness.

“No,” Hannibal agrees, dropping his eyes in the barest of flickers when Will nervously wets his lips. “You were horrified because you found out that the man who had listened to you as you spilled your darkest secrets couldn’t possibly know how you felt,” he whispers. His eyes are back up now, meeting Will’s, his voice an accented rasp as he adds quietly, knowingly, “How alone you were.”

“How alone I _am_ ,” Will breathes out, staring directly into Hannibal’s eyes without flinching away, watching the way they catch the firelight, going from red to black, red to black.

“You don’t have to be alone, Will,” Hannibal says, his deep voice soft, melodic, cool fingers just barely brushing Will’s jaw as he whispers fiercely, “Not anymore.”

“So it seems,” Will murmurs back, and god help him, he _believes_ it. When Will closes his eyes in a moment of pure, drunken relief, Hannibal smiles with slightly crooked teeth that flash sharp in the firelight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What I don’t understand,” Will whispers, his gaze venturing up, from Hannibal’s mouth to his nose and finally, to his eyes, “Is why me?"
> 
> Hannibal’s eyes crinkle at the corners in a soft, tender smile. “Perhaps he knows you are the only one that can see the difference,” he says, quiet and thoughtful. He looks at Will, holding the younger man’s gaze fast as he asks, “Is that not what all of us want, Will? To be seen?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will is ready to share a problem of the present and a horror of the past, and finds Hannibal more than willing to listen.

Will awakens the next morning with a hellacious hangover, a terrible crick in his neck and a warm, light feeling in his heart he can’t readily explain in his befuddled state. His eyes squeeze shut tighter to fight off a wave of nausea, and instead of facing the world he chooses to hunker down under the obscene softness of whatever is covering him.

Then, he smells coffee. And it smells _amazing_.

Bravely, he opens one eye. Even though it should, the sight of Hannibal standing over him with a mug of the coffee he smells in his hand doesn’t startle him. He stretches like a lazy cat and reaches out, smiling when the warm cup is placed in his own fingers.

“Thanks,” Will says, and winces at how loud his own voice sounds. He manages to sit up enough to take a sip, and when his body doesn’t automatically rebel, he takes another, before lowering the mug to his lap and reaching up to scratch at his messy curls. “Uh,” he says, when Hannibal merely continues to watch him, a soft smile on his face, “What time is it?”

“Nearly five,” Hannibal replies. Will blinks in surprise at this, before casting a glance first at the room he’s in—the sitting room, still, where he apparently passed out on the couch in his drunken stupor—then out the window where the sun is already well on its way to setting.

“Shit,” he says eloquently, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes and knocking the soft blanket covering him askew. He doesn’t remember even so much as seeing it the night before, and can only conclude Hannibal covered him up after he fell asleep. The thought makes him look up at the other man, wide-eyed as the glowing, tight feeling behind his sternum grows until it feels dangerously too large for the cage of his ribs to continue holding.

He clears his throat, and searches for somewhere else to train his eyes besides on Hannibal’s fond expression as he takes in Will’s rumpled, sleep-warm appearance. “Has Jack called?” he asks, and finds himself mostly failing in his goal as his eyes choose to look Hannibal over instead. He is, Will supposes, dressed casually. For him, anyway; still looking more put together than Will has ever dreamed to be in gray slacks and an impossibly soft-looking blue sweater.

“He has,” Hannibal answers as Will takes another sip of his coffee, if only to busy his hands that desperately wish to reach out to test the material of the other man’s sweater to see if it’s a soft as it looks. If Hannibal notices his struggle—and he’s quite sure at this point that the man misses exactly nothing—he gives nothing away, instead moving to sit down on the sofa when Will pulls up his feet to give him room. “Twice, in fact,” he adds, in afterthought.

Will takes another sip of his coffee, larger this time as it begins to cool, and his eyes flutter closed for a moment as he savors the unbelievably wonderful flavor that is already working wonders on his hangover. He opens his eyes again, trains his gaze on Hannibal sitting next to him. “What did you tell him?” he asks, voice roughened as the domesticity of the scene they set lodges like a hard knot in his throat.

Hannibal smiles, as if this is a pleasant memory for him. “That you were in the middle of a much-needed rest,” he says, matter-of-fact, “I also requested that you not be bothered until at least tomorrow.”

Will snorts, and then winces as the ache in his head flares. “Did you, now?” Will asks, amused.

“Indeed,” Hannibal agrees with an incline of his noble nose, “It is quite clear the toll these scenes are taking on you, Will. You came to me first in my capacity as a doctor. It is my duty to keep you well.”

“Psychiatrist,” Will grumbles into his mug.

Hannibal doesn’t deem it necessary to argue the point, apparently. “Both the mind and body need rest,” he reminds Will, sounding as much like a scolding parent as he does a doctor of multiple varieties. “Just as much as it needs nourishment,” he adds, smiling at Will as he climbs to his feet, “Come with me, please. Would you prefer breakfast or dinner?”

Some part of Will that has never done well with authority rebels, but the rest of him decidedly ignores that part, his body moving almost as if on its own accord to rise to his feet. “Breakfast,” he answers, following Hannibal towards the hall, adding belatedly, “Please.”

*

While he began preparing their meal, Hannibal allowed Will the use of a shower in one of his guest bedrooms, where he found a change of clothes and a toothbrush waiting on him. The shower Will desperately needed—Hannibal had told him so, somehow in his polite manner managing to inform Will that he still reeked of formaldehyde without even a hint of rudeness—and he allowed himself to enjoy it.

Back in his own apartment, where the water pressure was abysmal and the hot water only lasted a few minutes, his showers felt more like being spit on than the lovely drenching rain he found himself under in Hannibal’s shower. His mind had wandered more than once at the extreme strangeness of his situation; being fed fine foods and expensive alcoholic beverages, being allowed to crash on the couch of someone who is still practically a stranger. As he pulled on his borrowed clothes—a pair of drawstring pajama pants and a long-sleeved navy shirt that felt as though it had been knitted from a cloud—he had caught himself frowning at the thought that the man downstairs now knows so much about him, things he has never told anyone, living _or_ dead, before.

Then from his slightly hazy recollection of the night before he remembered the name Hannibal had spoken with such heartbreaking reverence— _Mischa_ —and being told he doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and decided that maybe things were just fine the way they are.

Even after the heat from his shower had faded, the warmth in his chest had remained.

Now, he comes downstairs once more in bare feet, slightly too-large newly acquired clothing hanging off of him, smelling like borrowed soaps and shampoos that certainly didn’t come from the dollar store like his own toiletries do. He finds Hannibal in the kitchen, of course; his hair falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look decidedly younger, surrounded by almost lewdly delicious scents coming from a pan where sausage sizzles away. “High Life eggs, with homemade blood sausages, and julienned potatoes,” he explains as Will ventures closer, eyes curious and belly growling.

“Sounds wonderful,” Will murmurs, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pajama pants. “Smells wonderful, too,” he adds, shuffling his bare feet awkwardly against the pristine wood floor beneath them. Hannibal seems to sense his continued ineptitude at such situations, and to Will’s absolute shock and amazement, he waits to catch Will’s eye and then casually flips a potato into the air, effortlessly catching it on its descent on the blade of his knife. It surprises a laugh out of him, and he rolls his eyes to the heavens as he inwardly files this playful side of the refined doctor away into his growing profile of him. Broken out of his temporary stasis, he moves forward, pulling out the stool he sat in the night before to have a seat.

A few moments pass in silence, Hannibal working, Will watching the show. It’s an easy, companionable silence, the likes of which Will has never known before. “I was thinking, in the shower...” Will blurts out, and then closes his mouth tight, not having quite agreed to let the words slip out at all. Hannibal, bent over his cutting board, merely smiles; one corner of his mouth tilting upward, baring a sharp canine tooth. He looks up through his artfully mused hair and raises a fair eyebrow expectantly. Will clears his throat, and looks down at his hands folded on the countertop before him. “I suppose saying that this isn’t normal is stating the obvious,” he ventures. “For a doctor-patient relationship,” he goes on, lifting his chin to interrupt when Hannibal opens his mouth, “ _Or_ for...friends.”

Hannibal only looks amused, taking up a spatula to carefully turn the sausages, whose scent permeates the room with such a delicious smell that Will’s mouth begins to water. “I have knowledge of a great many things, dear Will,” Hannibal says, turning his attention back to the potatoes, chopping them finely into little matchsticks, “But I—as well as you, I would venture to say—have very little knowledge of what would be considered ‘normal’ between friends.”

Will opens his mouth to argue, and shuts it just as quickly, because he knows goddamn well the man is right. Hannibal spares him from having to come up with something to say at any rate, pausing in his preparations to straighten and look at Will properly. “I enjoy your company, Will,” he tells him, strikingly honest, holding the younger man’s gaze until Will feels he must drop his eyes first, a blush coloring his cheeks. “I have found precious few people in my lifetime that I can say that about,” he goes on, gathering the potatoes between the blade of his knife and his palm and dropping them into a pan filled shallowly with oil. He adds, speaking over the hiss as they begin to fry, “As that in itself is unusual, I feel as though in this case what would be considered normal matters all the less for it.”

Will chews on that for a moment, watching the other man stir the potatoes around in the oil. “Fair enough,” he says, because who is he to argue? He certainly doesn’t have any practical knowledge of what friends do. He decidedly does _not_ think about the expanding supernova in his chest, growing all the wider from the other man’s words, or his own drunken revelation the night before.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want Hannibal to know that he too appreciates his company. He sits there, brow furrowed as he tries to choose the right words—why can’t they come as easily to him as they seem to for Hannibal?— but before he can, Hannibal is plating their food and reminding him, “We got sidetracked last night, I believe. We were meant to discuss your case over dinner. Or should I say cases?”

“Cases,” Will agrees with a nod, “At least two killers.”

Hannibal places Will’s plate in front of him, and turns it with his finger so that it is facing him just so. “Brinner,” Will says with a bright smile directed at the other man’s back when he turns away to fetch silverware, enjoying Hannibal’s moue of distaste at the term when he comes back to align the forks and knives beside his plate as if setting him up for a five course meal.

“If you are quite done purposefully antagonizing me, perhaps you should start by explaining why you are so sure there is more than one killer,” Hannibal says sternly, although Will smirks into his plate when he catches something in his expression that is dangerously close to adoration before he moves towards the refrigerator.

Will takes up his fork, and after a brief glance in Hannibal’s direction in which he nods encouragingly, he digs into his meal. He cuts off a corner of the bread and breaks his perfectly yellow egg yolk with the tines of his fork, slicing a sausage link in half while the yolk runs out onto his plate. Lifting his eyes once he’s assembled the sausage and bread onto his fork and dipped it into the egg, he takes a bite.

Hannibal pauses to eye him from across the room when a moan escapes Will, unable to contain it despite his best efforts thanks to the flavors exploding across his tongue. His head tilts just barely to the side, his surprisingly long lashes fluttering against his cheeks just for a moment, and Will’s sharp eyes and mind quickly make associations. Staring openly at his profile as he drove, watching the doctor do the same thing in his car during a crescendo of whatever aria was playing softly through the speakers.

Will’s flush deepens, and he swallows his mouthful so loudly he’s sure the neighbors can hear it. Pointedly, he drops his eyes to his plate, listening instead as Hannibal bustles around the kitchen, retrieving two goblet-looking glasses from the cabinet and filling them both with a reddish-yellow juice from a crystal pitcher he pulls from the refrigerator.

“Blood orange juice,” he announces as he brings Will’s glass over, then joins Will at the counter in front of his own place setting.

Their shoulders press together briefly as Hannibal gets settled, and Will feels the slight touch almost as strongly as he does when his power reaches for the dead.

“Blood oranges, blood sausage,” Will says, glad that his voice doesn’t choose to tremble at that moment. He raises an eyebrow, cutting his glance through his lashes at the other man just as he takes a delicate bite of his own sausage. “Variations on a theme, Doctor Lecter?”

“A fitting theme, if it is such,” Hannibal replies, smiling mischievously. Their elbows brush every so often as they both eat at the island, Will practically ravenous while Hannibal merely chews each small bite for a long time, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The food is incredible, as it always is, although Will’s mouth is too full to say so. He finally regains some semblance of control over himself about halfway through, and raises the napkin he had tossed in his lap to wipe his mouth, then takes a long swallow of his juice. “If the first two scenes were a photograph,” he says after a moment, his eyes unfocused on a point somewhere across the room. “The latest one... _The Nightmare_...was like the photograph’s negative. The ways in which the kills were different were highlighted, in stark contrast. One was darkness, one was light. One was unspeakably ugly, the other was...”

He falls silent, lost in thought, unaware of how sharp Hannibal’s gaze has become, how the other man has put down his utensils in favor of turning his head and his body, staring openly at the other man while his mind is elsewhere. Will worries his lower lip, bruising it to a darker shade of pink. Finally, Hannibal’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “The other was what, Will?”

Even with the softness of his voice, it still jars Will from his thoughts, and he looks down at his plate and frowns, his appetite lost. “It was art,” he whispers quietly, honestly; almost afraid to let Hannibal hear him. “It was art, and it was meant for _me_.”

Will is only vaguely aware that Hannibal has gone still beside him, his own food forgotten, but he is distinctly aware that those sharp, dark eyes are watching him, the scrutiny so intense Will feels his gaze like a cool caress. “How so?” he asks after a dragging moment of silence, where Will waits to be reprimanded for calling murder _art_. He’s less surprised than he would have been before the night before that the reprimand he’s expecting never comes.

Will takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. He doesn’t know how to explain how he knows, without explaining everything. He recalls his bourbon-fueled unloading of the night before, whispering memories to Hannibal that he’s never shared with another soul. He, the confessor in church, Hannibal an immovable statue on a dais made to listen.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes.

“My dad died two summers after I found the dead man in the woods,” he hears himself whisper, devoid of emotion, as if recounting some fact about the weather instead of the horror that was visited on him that summer. A horror that has guided his hand in every move he’s made since; that has effected every decision that led, he realizes abruptly, to sitting at the kitchen counter with Hannibal in Baltimore, breakfast for dinner forgotten and quickly growing cold on fine bone china before them.

Due to this, he revises his former statement, giving it the gravity that it is due. “My father was _murdered_ ,” he says, wetting his lips. “I was thirteen years old. He had moved us back down south in the spring, to Biloxi this time. I liked to walk down to the pier in the evenings, watch the shrimp boats come in,” he says, his accent thickening in words spoken at barely more than a whisper, “I came home after dark one night, later than I should have. I knew he had the night off, and I knew he’d be drinking, and he scared me when he was drunk...” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “I should have been home. Maybe I could have stopped it...”

“You were a child,” Hannibal says softly, and the hoarseness of his voice calls Will’s attention. The words themselves sounding nearly drug out of him. “Had you been there when it happened, you would have died with him.”

Will smiles, pained, and doesn’t mention all the times in his life he wishes that had been just the case. “When I got home,” he forces himself to continue, “I opened the door to our trailer, and everything was _red_. The walls, the floor...the only two fucking lawn chairs we had for furniture. And there, on the floor amongst all of it was my dad. Or what was left of him, anyway.”

Anyone else would have offered some sort of comfort, or pity, but Hannibal only listens intently. Will’s eyes burn with gratitude. “He was dead when you found him?” he asks; straightforward, which Will appreciates.

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching up to pass a hand over his face. “Very. And even after the old man in the woods, I still didn’t understand...I didn’t know what I was capable of.” He pauses and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He recalls that night in picture-perfect clarity, but even then it had a dream-like quality that didn’t feel real. “I had almost convinced myself that was just a dream, anyway,” he murmurs into the darkness behind his lids, his voice muffled by his hands, “Just another of my nightmares that woke me up screaming every night. I went to him, and I...”

_Blood soaking into knobby knees and into the ragged hem of his cutoff jeans when he falls to kneel at his father’s side. His desperate sobs cutting through the eerie silence of their mostly empty house. The coppery, metallic scent of blood filling him until he can taste it thick on his tongue. Small fingers grasping at an unmoving hand; motor oil still dark beneath the nails, old familiar scars still visible, but otherwise pale and cold. So cold._

_A frantic whisper in a voice he’d never heard leaving his lips before as his small hands slip in blood, trying to find purchase on the face beneath a dark beard shot through with gray._

“ _Dad, wake up. Daddy, please_!”

Before he can slip too far into the past, Will is snapped back to the present by the weight of a hand on his cheek. The fingers pressing against him feel cool against the flush of his skin, and he leans into the palm without thought, eyes still closed even when his own hands fall away. “Don’t go inside,” Hannibal murmurs, his thumb stroking lighter than a breath under his eye, smoothing away a tear that he doesn’t remember allowing to fall. “Stay here with me, Will,” he whispers, his touch and his voice soothing, as if gentling a wild animal.

In that moment, Will _feels_ wild; feels the power beneath his skin crackling to life now just as it did then, before he truly understood it or was able to control it. The breath he takes in is ragged and wet, and he could swear here in the present he can taste blood in the air as Hannibal remains so close. He finally opens his eyes, finding the other man much closer than he anticipated. Hannibal’s eyes are dark, hungry again; for knowledge of the inner workings of himself, Will imagines, since he can’t quite allow himself to imagine anything else. Where Will’s power boils beneath his skin, hot and raging and searching for an outlet, Hannibal’s presence is still a cool and placid lake. For the first time, Will senses the dark shadows moving beneath, monsters lurking under the smooth, undisturbed surface, lying dormant where Will’s rage out in the open.

He wonders what would happen, should their monsters ever meet.

For now, though, they only soothe. “Where else would I go?” Will hears himself whispering, blinking at their surroundings just to make sure he finds himself in a pristine kitchen with forgotten breakfast before him, and not in the run down, blood-soaked trailer he fled from decades before.

Hannibal smiles, just a bare curl of his full lips. Will expects him to release his face, and when he does just that, Will feels bereft, lost at sea, straddling two realities once more. He grips the countertop instead of reaching out to grab the other man’s hand with his own. If Hannibal notices his struggle, he says nothing about it, instead asking softly, “What did you see, Will? When you looked through your father’s eyes?”

Will grits his teeth against the images that were burned into his brain the day his childhood, such as it was, ended so abruptly in a swathe of blood and gore. He stares down at his hands, at the whiteness of his knuckles where he clenches the counter, and wets his lips. “I saw...” he says, his voice cracking, “I _felt_ myself being killed. I felt the claws tearing at me, goring me. I felt myself being torn limb from limb.” He swallows down his nausea at the memory. “I heard my dad call out my name as he died,” he whispers, “I felt how desperately he loved me, in the end; I don’t think I was ever really sure of it while he was alive.”

Hannibal nods, but doesn’t speak, and so Will goes on. “I saw the creature’s face, Hannibal.” Hannibal’s only outwardly tilts his head in the way a bird might when it finds something to eat, but Will can sense the sharpness of his attention in that moment so acutely it raises gooseflesh on his skin.

“It had been a man,” he says quietly, closing his eyes and drawing forth the memory of the thing he had been chasing his entire adult life. “At some point, anyway…there was nothing about it that was human anymore. Its eyes were filled with black, and its mouth...” He pauses and swallows hard. “Its face looked like it had been split open...the mouth was way too wide, and it was _filled_ with teeth; rows of them, long and skinny and jagged. I remember...” he whispers, wetting his lips and furrowing his brow, “There was _meat_ stuck in them. Pieces of my father.”

“This was the same creature you saw through the eyes of the others?” Hannibal asks gently.

“Not the same,” Will whispers, shaking his head. “That’s how I know they started as human. There are differences between them, subtle, just like those that set us apart. Different hair color, skin color, different bone structure. I always thought there was just the one that killed my father, until that first night with Jack. But they’re not. They’re all different. I was...I haven’t told Jack that. He barely believes that there’s _one_ vampire, for God’s sake.”

He chances a glance at Hannibal to find a barely-there frown on his face as he watches Will closely. “And the last one?” he asks, his tone oddly light considering the subject of their conversation, “What made it different?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he breathes out in a huff of a laugh that is completely devoid of humor. He finally manages to pry his hands off the counter, but only then to reach up and rub fitfully at his face. “ _Everything_ was different. The first ones...my father, the others...they were random, violent, and messy. Like a child playing in fingerpaints, smearing just to make a mess because it was fun. There was hunger there to be satisfied, and it was...I _felt_ it. I felt the mindless desire to rend and tear and drink and gorge myself. It was desperate and ravenous in a way that couldn’t possibly be satiated. It’s animalistic.” He pauses, shakes his head, not liking the taste of the words. “Baser than animalistic. Animals at least have a mind of their own...these things are like zombies.”

“And the other?” Hannibal asks, voice so quiet it barely reaches Will’s ears through his own loud thoughts.

Will is silent for a long moment, but not to order his thoughts; no, these words come easily, desperate to be shared with the only person he knows he can be truly honest with. The knowledge that he can do just that is heady, and Will closes his eyes, drunk with it. “There is intelligence, there. Superiority. It was a work of art,” he finally breathes, his eyes opening again,gaze hazy and unfocused as he recalls the memory with perfect clarity, “Crafted by a master’s hand.”

Hannibal sucks a breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring equinely, and he wets his lips before releasing it. “And this _master_ ,” he prods gently, “Did it look like the others? Did you slip so easily into his mind and feel his hunger?”

Will shakes his head. “No, I...I couldn’t see him,” he whispers, allowing himself to slip back to that night, to feel everything all over again. “I couldn’t _become_ him, but in the victim’s final moments I could _feel_ him, all around me. There was no fear, and no pain. Only desire.”

“Desire for what, Will?”

“For _him_ ,” Will says quietly, “And it was mine, not his. Where the others pressed into my head, he felt like a black hole...sucking in all matter around him. Those creatures flooded me with their hunger, their need for blood, for violence and death. Their victims inundated me with their fear and their agony.”

“But not this victim,” Hannibal whispers.

“No,” Will murmurs back, “He knew he was going to die, and he wanted it. He was convinced he wanted it. _I_ was convinced I wanted it, too.” His voice trails off into silence, the only sound he can hear besides the gentle hum of the refrigerator is the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. “I knew, in death, he would elevate me into something better than the sum of my parts in this life,” he whispers. Even he hears the longing in his voice, and is helpless in its face.

“Art,” Hannibal says, repeating Will’s earlier comparison.

Will nods weakly. “Art that he wanted me to see,” he says, a furrow in his brow as he tries to make sense of something that he knows _doesn’t_ make sense. “It’s like he wanted me to see the difference,” he whispers, almost to himself. “He wants me to know, for whatever reason, that he’s better than them. Above them. They may have the same needs, they may share the same goal—to drink, to _kill_ —but he is more refined, and he wanted me to know it. He does it better.”

“Fingerpainting toddlers versus a master artist,” Hannibal says, his own voice hushed to match, his accent thick enough to ever so slightly slur over the consonants.

Will nods shakily. “What I don’t understand,” he whispers, his gaze venturing up, from Hannibal’s mouth to his nose and finally, to his eyes, “Is why me?”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle at the corners in a soft, tender smile. “Perhaps he knows you are the only one that can see the difference,” he says, quiet and thoughtful. He looks at Will, holding the younger man’s gaze fast as he asks, “Is that not what all of us want, Will? To be seen?”

Will wets his lips and looks away from the man who seems to be able to see right through him, has been doing just that since the moment they met. Where others would balk, maybe even run and hide, Hannibal has only kept his eyes open and _looked_.

“I need to talk to Jack,” he says, choosing not to answer; not now, anyway. To answer would be to admit more than he’s ready for at the moment.

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Hannibal asks lightly.

There is, of course, absolutely no reason for him to offer, much less actually do so. There’s something in the way he asks, though, that gives Will pause. A lack of expectation, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just the thought that, although he knows Jack will refuse to look, Hannibal won’t.

He’ll look, and he’ll see.

Still, Will considers saying no, as he is automatically drawn to do by his inherent prickly nature. He doesn’t need a babysitter, and has made it thus far in life without—whatever this is.

He goes against his instincts, in the end. “Yeah,” he hears himself saying, the beginnings of a smile touching his lips, “I think I’d like that. Thanks.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, he is standing among the dead, and for all their screaming and crying and begging within the brittle walls of his skull, here at least they are blessedly quiet. He is too; a silent specter in the corner of the morgue at the FBI. They’re all laid out neatly on their own metal slabs with stark white sheets pulled over them. There are nine of them, now; while trying to stay out of everyone’s way in light of being allowed to observe despite his lack of credentials, he counts them.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Team Sassy Science makes a strange discovery, and Will sees the forest through the trees.

Will is tired. He is fucking _exhausted_.

The last few days for him have been a whirlwind of death and blood, interspersed here and there with arguments. Hannibal had, as he said he would, gone with him to Jack’s office, where he was—as he expected—all but called a liar once again. Will had considered quite seriously punching the agent in the face, if he thought he could get away with it, for dragging him back into a life of literal bloody murder only to question his every finding fiercely at every turn.

At the time, he had felt alarmingly certain that if he _had_ , Hannibal would have his back.

 _Hannibal_.

After their meeting at the BAU, Will hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man all week, and although Will has done quite a compelling job with convincing himself he doesn’t care, he had caught himself wondering about where he was and what he was doing alarmingly often. He had patients to see, of course, Will told himself. The doctor had to make a living, to keep him in that humongous house of his, and his fancy car with the heated seats and those absurd bespoke suits that should look ridiculous on him, but don’t.

 _Definitely_ don’t. That fact alone had occupied Will’s mind more than he was comfortable with over the last week.

Will had to remind himself on more than one occasion he had no reason to be jealous of the doctor’s other patients. In fact, he had quite a few reasons _not_ to be. Hannibal had all but said Will wasn’t his patient—he had only seen him in a professional capacity the first time they met. He had left the door open for Will to make the distinction for both of them that last evening in his office. And although Will had lingered outside the metaphorical doorway, choosing not to say one way or another, it had grown increasingly obvious that for Will at least, theirs was not a professional relationship. Even if he had a hard time admitting it, even to himself.

As for Hannibal...well, Will had seen his share of psychologists in his life, and not a one of them invited him to their house for dinner or showed up to feed him breakfast while he shlepped around in his underwear.

They most definitely did not allow him to spend the night, or touch him in ways he could swear he still felt hours later, burnt into his skin like a brand, or look at him like he was something fascinating and not just a puzzle to be solved.

At any rate, he certainly wasn’t going to call his doctor—or his friend, or whatever the fuck he is—and make an appointment just to see him again. Even he has limits to his patheticness, as it turns out.

There had been four more murders in as many days, and although Will would never admit it, he had secretly hoped Jack would call the doctor in; either for his advice, or more likely, to supervise the newest tool in his toolshed that was rusty and didn’t work quite like the agent surely wished it to. That hope resulted in him skulking around the edges of the crime scenes, distracted and looking up every time he heard a car door slam, only to frown at whoever had arrived like they had personally wronged him for not being the person he secretly wished they would be.

Will had never been one for much self-reflection, if only because he didn’t often like what he saw when he looked. And so, he refused to dissect the reasons why he thought of the eccentric doctor he barely knew off and on throughout the day, carrying over into increasingly sleepless nights. One of those nights, in a moment of desperation, he succumbed to googleing Hannibal’s name for the hell of it.

 _Obsessive_ , a hissing voice had whispered from the darkest recesses of his mind.

He had found a recent society column where Hannibal was pictured at the opera. Tall and svelte as always, his already razor-blade sharpness intensified by the clean lines of an all black tuxedo, Will had stared at the pixels that made up the image until his eyes crossed.

Only then did he take a look at the other person in the picture, a slightly frail older woman hanging on his arm like her life depended on it, outfitted in a sparkling dress with elbow-length gloves and a ridiculous feathered headband. While she was beaming for the camera, Hannibal was peering into it as if he could see Will straight through the screen of his laptop, half-dressed and half-drunk and most certainly _not_ pining, or torturing himself with the knowledge that he would never fit in at such a place with his worn out clothes and unkempt appearance.

Not that Hannibal had invited him. Not that he ever would.

He was _most_ _definitely_ not jealous of some old woman who looked like a scrawny bird in a wig, just because she was no doubt so effortlessly Hannibal’s friend, while Will was prickly and rude and probably pushed him away, even though part of him reluctantly accepts he wants him closer.

He most _certainly_ didn’t miss Hannibal, because that would be absurd.

Although he might be lacking in company and intriguing conversation, there was one thing he had plenty over the last few days despite Hannibal’s absence: food. Copious amounts of food. It had shocked him, the first time he came home from work—a _real_ job, which he had almost forgotten about completely, not the FBI; a consult in a graveyard with a grieving wife and her four children bickering over their father’s contested will—to find a soft-sided cooler tucked against the front door of his apartment. He had suspiciously carried it inside and opened it, finding several different sizes of glass containers within, full to the brim with an array of foodstuff to make up a feast, the food itself so ostentatious that it could only have come from one person, even if Will had more than one person on earth willing to feed him.

Hannibal.

He sat on his ratty couch that first night and gorged himself on mustard-fennel loin with cumberland sauce, asparagus salad with champagne-saffron vinaigrette, and raspberry-vanilla tartlets for dessert topped with a tiny flower that turned out to be edible. Will only knew what he was eating because along with the surprise meal, there had been index cards, carefully penned in a flourishing script whose only unevenness came from the fact that it was written with an honest-to-god ink pen, explaining in great detail how to reheat each dish to perfection—because heaven forbid he use a microwave. He thought about it, just because he liked to imagine how Hannibal would no doubt look like he was about to perish if he found out, but in the end found himself watching a YouTube video to figure out what the fuck a double boiler was.

The second night he came home to more of the same—liver pâté, crusty bread that smelled freshly baked, and some pickled vegetable concoction he couldn’t pronounce. And the next night, and the _next_ night.

Like everything else when it came to Hannibal, Will found himself growing used to this far too easily. After the first night, he didn’t bother leaving enough leftover for the next evening, because he knew Hannibal would bring more. And he did, night after night, ghosting Will’s doorstep while he was away and leaving behind tempting treats the likes of which Will had never known like a proud cat leaving his master a mouse on the doormat. The food got weirder and weirder by the day. Most recently foie gras and grilled beef heart, an incredibly far cry from his usual dinners of fast food burgers and take-out Chinese with grease leaching through the carton. Odd as the offerings were, Will knew he could quickly find himself getting used to such things.

So he ate. And as he did so, he absolutely did _not_ miss him.

Will made a gallant effort into throwing himself into his work. It was, all in all, a rather easy endeavor to undertake considering his line of work. Seasons may change, routines may change, people may suddenly go radio silent and attend operas with women who somehow manage to pull off wearing a beaded headband with a feather in it like it’s still the roaring twenties. But one thing that never changes, and is always there, is Will’s oldest, closest friend.

 _Death_.

The four bodies that had dropped in quick succession over the last week were the work of the same sort of creature that killed Will’s father. As they were found, he had under Jack’s watchful eye dutifully roused them from their peaceful slumber, suffered with them as they screamed and fought, and dipped into their minds to relive their final moments along with them. First a truck driver found dead the night after the one he spent with Hannibal, drug out of the sleeping compartment of his rig in a desolate motel parking lot on the outskirts of town. Will had called out a woman’s name with him, perhaps a wife or a mother or a daughter, as he died with the creature’s teeth gnawing at his throat like a dog with a bone.

Then there was the widower the next night, who was ripped apart in his own backyard, who was at least comforted at the end as he was torn literally limb from limb with the thought that he was finally going to see his long-dead wife again.

Then, the man who had come home to find his own wife dead in the doorway of their home. The haunted, traumatized look in his eyes and his shell-shocked expression were almost too familiar to Will to witness. He had, after all, seen much the same reflected back to him in the mirror for the majority of his teenage years. He hadn’t slept well that night.

Then there had been a child; eleven years old, walking home from a friend’s house after dark. When Will had adamantly refused to wake him, to _look_ , he and Jack had nearly come to blows.

That night was the first he didn’t sleep at all, and there had been several since. He was _living_ a nightmare, and so had no desire to see what his mind might conjure up while he slept. There had been so much death, so much pain, so many lives cut short and he had seen them all to their bitter ends, and they stayed with him, compounding one another, eating away at him until he wondered how there was anything left.

Now, he is standing among the dead, and for all their screaming and crying and begging within the brittle walls of his skull, here at least they are blessedly quiet. He is too; a silent specter in the corner of the morgue at the FBI. They’re all laid out neatly on their own metal slabs with stark white sheets pulled over them. There are nine of them, now; while trying to stay out of everyone’s way in light of being allowed to observe despite his lack of credentials, he counts them.

“You’re running out of tables,” he mumbles into his coffee. It is, actually, _Hannibal’s_ coffee; a thermos of which had been delivered with his dinner the night before. Even after reheating it in a contraband microwave in the BAU’s tiny kitchen, the black jet fuel they call coffee there couldn’t even begin to hold a candle to it. Zeller had innocently asked if he was sharing, and Will practically hissed at him like a dragon protecting its hoard.

In his defense, the coffee was _really_ good, and he was _really_ fucking tired.

Beverly Katz doesn’t look up from what she’s doing when Will speaks. What she’s doing appears to be mostly just peering through a microscope and frowning a lot. “We’ll have to let the older ones go, soon,” she answers, changing her slide, “Release them to the families, for burial and such.” She sighs in irritation, straightens and tosses the slide carelessly onto the desk, then seems to think better of it and returns it to the small box with all the others. “I think we’ve gotten about all we’re going to get from them,” she adds, rubbing her eyes with her wrists, bare below the blue latex of her gloves, before sighing again and diligently going back to work.

Will pushes away from the wall to cross over to where she is bent over the microscope, through the rows of the dead who he knows intimately, now, having seen the inside their minds and heard their dying thoughts. He instead stops at the foot of the table where Zeller and Price are wrist-deep in one of the dead, trying to remain small and unobtrusive as he hovers and sips his coffee, and pretends not to be watching with interest that could be perceived as dancing on the border between professional and a little creepy.

There are, of course, many differences between the corpses currently occupying the morgue. Different genders, different races, ranging in age and hair colors and eye colors. There is nothing particularly different about the one currently undergoing autopsy by the two constantly-bickering agents, to anyone except Will.

To Will, this one stands out like a beacon, since he sees him carefully arranged in the woods like the painting he was drawn to as a boy every time he dares to close his eyes. On the slab he looked like just another dead body, but out in the world, as the _other_ vampire had left him, he had been hauntingly beautiful.

Art, Will had called it, painted by a master’s hand. Hannibal had stared at him with those warm-blood eyes when he had called it that, and he didn’t shy away. Instead he had _smiled_.

“Strange,” Price says, interrupting Will’s thoughts that have slowly begun to spiral in an all-too-familiar direction. Will looks up at him at the same time as the others do, watching as he stares up at the ceiling as his hands blindly grope around deep inside the gaping y-shaped incision opening the dead man’s chest cavity.

Will looks at Beverly, who looks at Zeller, who shakes his head and says, “You planning to share with the class, Jim?”

“What? Oh,” Price replies, shrugging his shoulders despite keeping both hands inside the corpse’s chest cavity as he does so. “Just can’t seem to find a kidney,” he finally says after a moment, his lined face screwing up in concentration as he continues to feel around.

“Maybe he was a donor?” Zeller asks, his dark brows pulling down into a frown as he reaches in alongside Price, and begins to root around in the body too, to look for the missing organ.

“There’s no scar indicating removal,” Beverly says, her head still bowed over her microscope.

“It could be renal agenesis,” Price chimes in cheerfully, finally removing his hands to peek inside. “It’s more common for men to be born with only one kidney than women,” he goes on.

“What’s the odds of that?” Will asks, watching as Zeller rounds the table, clicking on a pen light to illuminate the abdominal cavity before sticking his head next to Price’s to peer within.

“Oh, roughly one in seven-hundred and fifty,” Price replies, almost touching his nose to the cleanly sliced flesh before remembering himself and lifting his head enough to tug down the clear facial shield he wears on his head.

Beverly sighs again, louder this time, and shuts off the microscope with more force than is strictly necessary. She strips off her gloves, tossing them halfway across the room into the trashcan and making it in with an impressive shot Will raises his eyebrows at, before she crosses the room to join them. She takes up the chart and flips through it quickly, her eyes narrowed as she skims the man’s medical history. “He was perfectly healthy college student,” she announces, brandishing a copy of the young man’s most recent physical for the junior varsity lacrosse team, “ _Extremely_ healthy, by all accounts. No way this kid was missing a kidney, guys.”

Will’s brow furrows as he reaches out to pluck the chart from her hands, taking a look himself. Sure enough, the guy hadn’t had so much as a cold since he had the chicken pox in kindergarten. He closes the chart and places it back at the end of the table by the dead man’s pale feet, causing the toe tag to sway back and forth from the breeze he caused. He stares at the perfectly pedestrian name printed in a messy scrawl on the card, nothing like Hannibal’s perfect and neat script on the cards he secretly tucked in a drawer at home to hold on to, for reasons he’s not allowed himself to analyze.

“Nope,” Price agrees, leaning back to make room for Zeller as he takes another look through the organ’s they’ve already removed—some of which were placed neatly atop the man’s open belly by the killer, offered up like a basket of goodies. Zeller presses his lips together and shakes his head, and Price announces for him, “We have no kidneys, folks.”

“ _No_ kidneys?” Will echoes, “Not just one is missing?”

“Could have been eaten by wildlife or something, the way he was displayed,” Beverly supposes, her own brow furrowed into a frown.

They fall into silence as they watch Zeller abandon the abdominal cavity for the thoratic, instead. “Diaphragm is intact. Liver looks good. Pair of lungs—very healthy, nice non-smoking lungs, unlike some people,” he says, giving Price a pointed look as he carefully removes them, before handing them off to his partner to be weighed and further examined, then turns back to the body and pauses. “Heart...is missing,” he says flatly, shaking his head in disbelief, “Wildlife takes off with a pair of kidneys and a heart?”

“Without disturbing the rest of the crime scene?” Will adds, feeling something niggling at him, like fingers tapping on some back door in his brain.

“That’s not all he’s missing,” Price pipes up from where he’s looking through the dishes containing the man’s separated organs. He holds up one, filled with glistening intestines, adding wryly, “Unless our guy is suffering from short bowel syndrome, as well as an unprecedented case of...double renal agenesis?”

“Don’t forget the heart,” Zeller replies, grinning crookedly, neither of them noticing the way Will’s brow furrows.

“Sounds like a trip to the grocery store to me,” Price says gleefully, miming making a list as he says, “Kidney, bowels, and don’t forget the heart!”

They go on, but the sound of their joking interspersed with Beverly’s light laughter fades into nothing more than crackling white noise to Will’s ears as he stares down at the body, closing his eyes to imagine him as he was in the woods with his arms stretched above his head and his eyes closed in sleep. The whole thing, from the image itself calling back to his lonely childhood to the organs shining wetly in the moonlight, felt like an offering. He had told Hannibal he felt like it was for _him_ , this work of art created from a man who had happily intertwined himself with death in his final moments.

Hannibal had looked into his eyes over their forgotten breakfast, unflinching, and told him that perhaps the killer only wished to be _seen_.

The realization doesn’t come with any fanfare, really. Will supposes he should probably faint, or cry out to a god he has never believed in, when his mind finally connects the dots. He thinks of that forgotten breakfast, and the sausages Hannibal had proudly declared he made himself. He thinks of kidney in a sherry sauce eaten at a beautifully set dinner table, of grilled heart Will had ate with his hands on his threadbare couch. He thinks of the satisfying snap of the sausage casings when he bit into them, of he way he unabashedly licked the juices from the heart from his fingers while he watched late-night television.

His stomach turns over, and he lifts a hand to his mouth, pressing his knuckles against his lips, and hates himself when he wonders if the nausea is from the realization of what he’s now sure he’s been eating, or if it’s just because he hasn’t eaten anything that day at all.

He blinks and realizes the bantering has come to an abrupt end, and all three agents are watching him; Beverly looking vaguely concerned, while Price and Zeller just look amused as usual.

“You okay?” Beverly asks, tilting her head slightly, “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“Sorry, man,” Zeller says, going for contrite but missing it by a mile, since he’s still grinning, “Morgue humor, you know?”

Will realizes he thinks their joking is the cause for his sudden queasiness. He lowers his hand slowly, still clenched into a fist at his side, his knuckles white around his borrowed thermos of coffee as he manages a shaky smile and reminds them, “I used to be a homicide detective, remember?”

He must do a decent acting job, because the others seem convinced, turning their attention back to their autopsy. “Are any of the others missing organs?” Beverly asks, her smile still lingering in the corners of her eyes even as she schools the rest of her features into something more appropriate for the task at hand.

Price shakes his head. “Who can tell?” he replies, turning to the next table and drawing the white sheet down, revealing the first man they found, the first crime scene Will had attended with them. The day Jack came to collect him from where he was doing his job quietly in a graveyard, waking the newly dead who had died of completely natural causes, to _this_ , standing over a sea of corpses with the taste of a killer’s delicious coffee still lingering on his tongue.

The taste of his _friend’s_ delicious coffee lingering on his tongue. The only one he’s got, as a matter of fact. The only one that has looked at him and _seen_ him, and who hasn’t looked away.

He, too, has looked and seen, and he doesn’t know what to do with the information he’s gathered now that he finally saw what was painstakingly being shown to him.

_It was work of art, crafted by a master’s hand._

Price is gesturing to the mess that is the first body’s thorax, flesh torn to shreds with sharp claws, meat and organs torn into small enough pieces that it no longer resembles what it used to be. “It’s soup in here,” Price remarks.

“There won’t be any organs taken from the others,” Will says softly. His voice doesn’t sound like his own; mechanical and hoarse. The surety in his words catch his companions’ attention, though. Will wets his lips and blinks, realizes belatedly that he’s yet to have torn his eyes away from the body splayed open for autopsy.

“We’ve collected tissue samples,” Zeller says, eyebrows pinched, “We’ll have to go through them all and make sure everything is accounted for.”

“It will be,” Will says absently.

“What makes you so sure?” Beverly asks, looking at Will hard, then looking between the two bodies on either side of her. “You told Jack there are at least two killers, right?” she asks. Will nods, and wonders how much Jack had told them about what Will had insisted on—that there are vampires out roaming the woods at night, killing people at random and drinking their blood and tearing them apart in their lust for destruction, and that the man posed in the woods was killed by something different, _someone_ different. He wonders if any of them would believe him, if he said the name rattling around in his head so loudly at the moment he wonders how the others can’t hear it.

_Hannibal._

Beverly is staring at him so hard he wonders if, maybe, she can. “If this is the only one missing organs,” she says, “And he’s the only one killed by a second killer...what’s he doing with the organs?”

 _He’s eating them_ , he almost says. The words are there on the tip of his tongue, but the knowledge of the next words that springs to his mind stays him, in the end.

 _He’s feeding them to me_.

“Trophies, maybe,” he manages to say, his throat tight as his frankly herculean grip on his panic finally begins to tear forcefully away. He can feel it rising, up from his belly and up through his chest, traveling up his throat until it lodges in the form of a scream trapped on the back of his tongue. Beverly is still watching him like a hawk, and he forces himself to swallow it down and add in a whisper, “I...I have to go.”

He tightens his grip on Hannibal’s thermos and leaves in a hurry, with Zeller calling questions after him about why the hell a vampire would keep trophies. Even after everything the man has seen, he can still practically hear the air quotes around the word _vampire_.

The hallway outside of the basement morgue is blessedly empty when he slams the heavy metal door behind him and leans against it, running a trembling hand down his face and then up through his curls, the light sheen of sweat covering him helping them to stand on end in wild angles that probably do nothing to make him look less crazy than he feels.

He presses his palm over his eyes until he sees stars in the darkness behind his lids. He should go back in there, he knows, and find out more. He should, honestly, go find Jack Crawford and tell him he knows who at least one of their killers is.

But to what end?

Jack hasn’t believed him so far. He’s questioned his abilities, he’s questioned what he saw, even when Jack himself witnessed what happened when the killer’s minds infected Will’s so deeply. Will had seen the angry flush on his dark-skinned cheeks when he had come to his office to explain his findings in detail; words like _preposterous_ and _ludicrous_ hurled at him while Will had stood at Hannibal’s side and tried to describe the differences between the two killers, who seemed to Will to be different as night and day.

He had been spoiled by the way Hannibal accepted his explanation so easily, without batting a single fair eyelash. Although he had, in retrospect, been describing Hannibal to Hannibal himself, telling him how his own kill had stood out to him, how it was elevated over the rest, how he was a master painter and the others merely toddlers with fingerpaints.

The other man had smiled at him, heartachingly handsome and supportive in a way that Will has never known, in what Will thought at the time was understanding. Now Will wonders if he wasn’t pleased and smug to be told he was somehow better than his peers. The other monsters just like _him_.

Because Hannibal? Hannibal must be one of them. There has been no doubt in his mind until this moment that whatever killed that man and left him for Will in the woods was a vampire, too. He supposes there is a chance, a chance Will clings to with all of his being, that he was wrong; that the kill was simply made to look that way, to confuse him, to throw him off the trail.

The alternative is what nearly brings Will to his knees, what makes him close his eyes as they burn hot behind his lids with tears, devastation and betrayal churning in his gut. He wonders what exactly that makes _him_ , that it’s not cold-blooded murder, or his own unwitting cannibalism that does it.

No; it’s the chance that he had, however inadvertently, attached himself intrinsically to a monster. A monster just like the one that had taken his only family away from him, orphaned him, turned his entire life as he knew it on its ear and set the course for everything in his existence that followed. The cold nights he spent starving on the streets, desperately avoiding any sort of authorities that might take his freedom from him. His career in law enforcement and its abrupt, violent end. Everything in his life, _everything_ that led up to this moment, unable to breathe for the ache in his chest outside of a basement morgue beneath the FBI: his chase to end the creature that had stolen everything away from him and so many others.

His chase to end that creature, and once he realized there was more than one, his silent resolution to end _all_ of them.

It’s the chance that one of those very creatures may have wound itself tightly into the fabric of Will’s life without him even realizing it. Hannibal had befriended him, understood him, taken care of him like no one—not even his own relations—had ever bothered to do. He was brilliant and strange, and somehow despite their differing edges and angles had slotted against him as effortlessly as any matching puzzle piece. He had reached out without hesitation and ran his fingers along the insides of Will’s mind and found nothing but beauty there. He had looked into Will’s eyes and Will had seen his own reflection, for the first time seeing himself as more than a blunt instrument to be used, more than a tool, more than the sum of his powers and the purpose they could serve. He had felt the darkness rising up to meet his own, had been immersed in acceptance—he felt more than acceptance, he had experienced, for the first time in his life, how it felt to be cherished.

How it felt _to_ cherish.

Will’s next realization comes with a little more fanfare than the last. It arrives in Will’s mind along with the tears that spill hot down his cheeks and the ache that blooms rapidly in his chest, stealing away his breath, opening wider and wider like a raw, open wound. It arrives in a whisper that reverberates through his bones like shifting tectonics, growing louder and louder until it focuses down into a single thought that repeats over and over like a broken record in his ears.

He is in love with Hannibal Lecter, and he has no choice but to kill him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks terrifying. He looks beautiful.
> 
> He looks ready to tear the whole fucking world apart.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will Graham's terrible, no good, very bad day continues.

Will barely remembers leaving, but somehow he had found his way out of the basement of the BAU and to his car, where he drops his keys no less than four times thanks to his violently shaking hands as he attempts to unlock the door. He finally manages to get inside, tossing the thermos he has kept a death grip on down into the passenger seat. The remaining coffee inside sloshes angrily in the stark silence of the car as Will grips the steering wheel with both hands until his knuckles blanch white, before he slumps in his seat, pressing his forehead against the cracked leather wrapped around the wheel between his clinging hands.

He considers letting loose the scream he’s holding, but he fears if he starts he won’t stop, and some federal agent—probably Jack Crawford, considering his current streak of incredibly bad luck—will come out of the Bureau and find him screaming himself hoarse in his tin can of a car and he’ll find himself packed off to the nearest institution for the insane. _Again_. Will laughs at the thought, wondering if things wouldn’t be easier in such a place, where he could be heavily medicated and wrapped up in the perpetual hug of a straight jacket and no longer be forced to make decisions for himself like the one that now lies before him. He’d never have to look into the mind of a dead body ever again, and maybe with enough time, medication, and enough shock therapy, he would forget he ever had the ability to begin with.

Maybe, with that and a little luck, he might be able to forget where that ability has now led him.

At the same time, he feels as though all of this has been an inevitably that couldn’t have been avoided. Like he was meant to come to this point, where he had finally found someone who understood him, only to be forced to not only wrench himself away from that comfort but to sever it completely, in what will no doubt be a bloody and violent ending.

For one of them, anyway, and in the darkness of that moment, he hopes desperately that it’s _him_.

A hot tear escapes from his tightly closed eyes, slithering between his lashes before trailing down to the tip of his nose and dropping off. He opens his eyes as he watches it land on the wrinkled khaki pants he’s been wearing for at least two days now, soaking into the fabric and leaving behind a perfectly round circle of moisture. He watches another one join it, and another, before he squeezes his eyes closed again to stop the flow of them. His eyes burn behind his lids, and he grits his teeth and squares his jaw before finally lifting his head from the steering wheel with great effort.

He had come to the morgue following Beverly’s text that morning before the sun rose, asking if he’d like to be present for the autopsy. Now, the sun is beginning to set, indicating the amount of hours that had passed since he arrived to be quite a few. Even still, it seems absurd to Will that only such a short time had passed since he stood at the dead man’s feet, recalling with perfect clarity how his missing organs had tasted. With what care they had been prepared and served to him, and the way they had been left on his doorstep by someone who truly seemed to care rather or not he was running himself ragged without proper nourishment.

It seemed even more preposterous that only a few short weeks had passed since he first met that someone, when it felt to him like he had already known him all his life.

Will’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until it lets out a squeak of protest beneath his fingers, before he peels them off one by one with much more concentration than should strictly be necessary, and reaches for his keys where they had fallen limply to the floorboard. It takes several tries, again, for him to manage to land the proper key in the ignition, his hands trembling violently without something secure to hold on to. He manages eventually, and the aged, cold engine turns over after a short struggle.

He navigates the highway between Quantico and Baltimore in a daze. He doesn’t realize until he’s almost taken the exit into the nicer part of town until it’s nearly too late to correct it, and he swerves back onto the beltway amidst a chorus of honking horns and shouts that he barely hears. His half-conscious brain clearly had a destination in mind that Will’s aching heart isn’t ready for. He needs time before he calls on Hannibal again. He needs space, he needs to _think_.

The minutes trudge by as he drives, the lights from cars and streetlamps flashing in his eyes keeping him somewhat oriented to time passing and his fickle concentration somewhat on the task at hand; steering, moving his right foot from gas to brake as needed, navigating so that he doesn’t end up again somewhere he’s not prepared to be.

He fails miserably at that, in the end, when he passes a dingy bar whose neon sign is pitifully on the blink. He pulls over, parks crookedly enough that he might just get towed, gets out of the car and wanders inside.

If his father taught his son anything in the short years they shared together before his death, it was how to drown a broken heart deep in the depths of a bottle.

When he comes out two hours later, the sun has long since set, and his whiskey-sour breath fogs the frigid air as Will stumbles in the general direction of his abandoned car. Once there he repeats the whole ordeal from earlier with dropping his keys an absurd amount of times, finally making it inside the car and then doing it all again trying to get the key in the ignition. Eventually, he sighs and slumps against the driver’s side door in defeat. He knows well enough he has no business driving anyway, as he is just a hair away from being plastered. And so for reasons he decides he is too drunk to examine, he scoops up the thermos from the floorboard, tucks it beneath his arm, and then he leaves his shitty car in its shitty spot in front of the shitty bar, and begins the long walk to his really shitty apartment.

If he had any hope that cheap liquor and fresh air would do anything to clear his head, it was quickly dashed. The only thing that feels heavier than his feet as he trudges over cracked and dirty sidewalks, stepping around a homeless person here and there already bedded down for the night, is his heart. He fumbles in the pocket of his coat for his knitted cap, pulling it down tightly over his cold ears before shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. He lowers his gaze to watch his feet picking an unsteady path, and blinks furiously against the fuzziness in his vision that is most definitely caused by drunkenness, since he’s already far exceeded his quota for tears.

He’s not sure how much time passes before the streets around him start to look familiar in their grunginess, some of the boarded up windows to long-closed businesses and graffiti he blearily realizes he’s seen before. Soon enough, he recognizes his apartment building, and hears the shouts and curses of his neighbors and babies crying and the awful smell that seems to linger around the place he has, for reasons currently beyond him, called home.

His mind supplies the fact that Hannibal has come here, his elegance no doubt tainted by the squalor Will inexplicably surrounds himself with. He could afford better, but living in the shadiest part of town is all he’s ever known, his recent brush with the finer things in life not withstanding.

He reaches the building, and leans against the worn bricks for a moment to catch his breath, pressing his fingers into his eyesockets hard when the burning in his red-ringed eyes becomes too much, and the world lists dangerously sideways for a moment. When he’s sure he’s gotten some modicum of control over his overactive tearducts, he turns and wrenches open the door with the rusty hinges, metal against metal crying out from the abuse like something straight out of a horror movie. As he trudges up the first flight of stairs, he refuses to allow himself to imagine Hannibal in his suits and expensive shoes doing the same. To come fetch him to bring him to a crime scene for no good reason other than because he _wanted_ to. Because he appreciates Will’s company. To bring him dinner, night after night, if only because he wanted to give him another clue with which to _see_.

Will stumbles out onto the landing at the building’s second level, and places a steadying hand against the wall, forcing himself a through deep breaths. As he does so, he’s bathed in the sallow greenish light that shines from the single uncovered bulb stationed on each floor. It is, he’s sure, meant to make it safer and easier to see in the dark. Much like Will, though, the sad little light fails at its purpose. It hums pitifully, and sporadically flickers off and on, off and on.

Maybe it’s the color, or the constant blinking, or the fact that he’s a little shitfaced, or that like the light he too is failing at his _entire_ fucking life, but it makes him feel irrationally angry. He pushes himself off the wall with great effort and starts to walk past it, then stops. Turns, and looks at the light again, blinking off again and leaving the stairwell bathed in complete darkness. He thinks of the teenage mother down the hall from him with two small kids that always look so dirty and sad and sighs rather dramatically to himself. They need a safe stairwell, even if he doesn’t. And maybe he needs to do something halfway decent to make up for keeping his mouth shut before at the lab, when he _knows_ he should have been screaming the truth to anyone who would listen, rather than becoming an accessory to murder and cannibalism and god only fucking knows what else.

Will sighs. Even to his drunken mind, it’s a flimsy trade.

He crosses the landing, tucks the travel thermos tighter under his arm and straightens to inspect the light. From the layer of dust and grime, Will at first assumes the bulb is just old, but after a few seconds of tinkering with the green light flashing in his eyes like the saddest excuse for a strobe light ever, he gives up, assuming the problem is in the fixture. He gives himself kudos for trying, though, especially when his own life is such a massive disaster, then promptly drops the thermos for his trouble. It clangs when it hits the concrete floor, and Will’s head swims dangerously when he stoops down to pick it up, bracing his weight on the dingy cinder blocks of the wall to keep himself from falling on his face.

He straightens with it tucked safely against his body while pointedly not asking himself why he doesn’t dropkick the godforsaken thing down the stairs just because of who it belongs to. A thought better left until he’s behind his locked door, he decides.

With grim determination, Will turns around to head to his hovel and stops dead in his tracks.

Either Will is even drunker than he thought, or the man had joined him so silently that there wasn’t a hope for him to hear. And, Will notes, he’s not a man, exactly; he looks no more than a kid, dressed from head to toe in black. Black skinny jeans, black boots, black tank top and a black leather jacket. He looks like one of the goth kids he remembers from high school; his hair greasy and dyed dark, his face pale, and Will is marginally sure he is wearing eyeliner. There’s something off about his eyes, though, that Will catches immediately. They’re also black, but don’t catch any of the green light still flickering on and off, on and off. They’re like matte black pits, void of anything human.

Will is suddenly struck by how incredibly idiotic it is for someone who was bound to cross paths with a vampire— _another_ fucking vampire—not to carry a weapon. He heaves another put-upon sigh, because of course this is happening now. Of fucking _course_.

“Necromancer,” the man sharing the stairwell with Will greets, after a ridiculously long moment of staring each other down.

“Vampire,” Will replies flatly, since he assumes they’re stating the obvious. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d appreciate it if you’d make it quick. It’s been a long fucking day.”

The thing smiles at that, amused, and it’s a horrific sight to see its face start to split unnaturally wide. Rows and rows of sharp, jagged teeth start to appear, growing up from its gums and over its human teeth with a crackling, slithering sound Will can hear from across the stairwell. It makes his skin crawl. “I’m not going to kill you, little necromancer,” it coos, its voice garbled terribly by the excess of teeth filling his mouth, as if it’s unused to speaking around them, “You’re coming with me. Someone wants to meet you.”

Will barks out a short laugh that echoes off the walls around him. “Yeah, _that’s_ not going to fucking happen,” he chuckles, watching as the thing shrugs its shoulders—a universal way of saying ‘we’ll see’ that extends to the undead, apparently—before he winds up and throws Hannibal’s thermos as hard as he can, beaning the creature right in its ugly face.

It lands with a sickening crack, and when it falls away the thing’s nose is bent at an odd angle, and black blood that smells horribly foul to Will, even with the distance between them, gushes out its nose and over its mouth. But the thing only  _laughs_ , a horrific sound grinding through all those fucking teeth, and in one second the creature is on the other side of the landing, blocking the exits to both sets of stairs going up and going down, and in the next second he’s across the room, slamming Will into the concrete wall at his back, his hand on Will’s throat, choking the life out of him.

Will is too tired to make sense of the danger, it seems, instead marveling at the raw power concentrated in the creature’s hand as his fingers dig into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. He lifts him higher, his shoes scrambling a foot off the ground, and slams him into the wall again hard. Will’s head makes contact with a sickening crack and his vision goes dangerously dim.

“Thought you weren’t going to kill me?” he croaks as a thumb presses sharply against his windpipe. His hands scramble for purchase on the vampire’s wrist, its skin cold as ice beneath his fingers as he tries desperately to loosen its grip enough to drag in one more breath.

“I’ve changed my mind,” it snarls through its teeth, claws growing from the space where fingernails should be and digging deep into Will’s flesh. He feels his blood begin to run, the warmth of it stark against his cool skin, and watches as the thing’s nostrils flare at the scent. “You smell amazing,” it whispers roughly, “What _are_ you?”

“Not a vampire slayer, unfortunately,” Will quips, his voice hoarse from the creature’s grip.

The vampire smiles again, a sick twist of lips over jagged teeth. “Maybe I’ll see what’s inside,” it says, with an extremely disturbing, childlike glee. Will sees a flash behind his eyes of his father ripped to shreds, and tries desperately to say _no,_ to shake his head, _anything_ , but it’s too late. With its free hand, the vampire is already pressing razor-sharp claws against Will’s stomach, and they slide through muscle and fat like five searing hot blades slicing easily through cold butter. Will tries to cry out in pain, but no sound leaves his lips thanks to the hand compressing his windpipe as easily as one might crush the brittle aluminum of a beer can.

He supposes he should be going into shock, but he feels every second of those clawed fingers digging into his belly, rearranging his insides, with perfect clarity. Feels his blood, burning hot, pouring forth from the wound, hears the pitter-patter of it as it splashes down onto the concrete floor below him like raindrops. It feels almost familiar, and he deliriously supposes there’s good reason for that. He has, after all, lived this reality over and over; felt just this happening to him when he looked through his father’s eyes years ago, through the eyes of those men and women in the woods just days ago.

A low growl leaves the creature as it lowers Will, still held fast against the wall, but low enough that his toes scrape the concrete floor, scrambling for purchase. Its fathomless eyes slowly lower to Will’s neck as his blood rushes out around its tearing claws that puncture his flesh there.

Its tongue flicks out from within its maw, licking at its teeth, leaving them dripping with viscous saliva.

Memories that are not his own flash through his mind, his father’s last moments among them, the split second between life and death before their throats were ripped out by hundreds of sharp teeth. He knows in that moment, just like the others did, that he is facing his end.

He will die tonight, drunk under the flickering light of the stairwell in his shithole apartment building. It’s not the end he imagined for himself, although admittedly, they were all pretty pathetic as well.

He thinks of his father, and how in his last moments he had sobbed his only son’s name. There isn’t anyone for Will to cry for, here at the end of his miserable life.

Or is there?

_Stay with me here, Will._

_Where else would I go?_

Without having to call it forth or coax it out, Will’s power flares up, so much so that he feels the pressure of it behind his eyes and pressing against the inside of his skin in a desperate search for a way out. He feels the instinct bubble to the surface and follows it without question, an instinct he’s never had before, never had a _reason_ to have before, even though he can’t breathe and darkness is blooming around the edges of his vision.

He reaches out, grips the vampire’s face, lets go of the careful hold he unconsciously keeps on his power at all times, and forces it _in_.

What he finds inside holds not a shred of humanity. The mind he encounters, at first glance, doesn’t feel like it was ever human at all. Not even animal, because animals aren’t cruel.

There is nothing inside this creature’s mind but merciless, savage violence, and _hunger_.

The hunger floods through him; a desperate, raging hunger that he would do anything to curb. The scent of blood unlike any he has ever smelled fills his senses to the brim until there’s nothing else left in him but a burning, driving _need_ to take it, take it all until there’s nothing else. He feels the throbbing ache in his teeth, and knows that the only thing that will make it stop, even just for a little while, is to sink them into pliant flesh and rip and tear and _rend_.

He knows if he doesn’t follow his orders, he’ll be killed. But there is no room for self-preservation in this creature’s mind. He would gladly die for just a taste.

He feels hands on his face, nails digging into his skin, and he tries to shake them loose. He feels a niggling in his mind like a fly buzzing around his ears, like someone knocking on a door on the other side of the house. Vaguely annoying.

Will feels at once everything the vampire is feeling along with the sensations from his own body. He feels his knuckles rapping on that proverbial door at the same time as he feels the creature trying to throw the locks closed; feels the creature trying to get at his throat at the same time as he tries to get into the creature’s mind.

Will’s power rises inside him in a way he’s never experienced before, and he kicks that goddamn proverbial door in with all his might.

“ _Enough_ ,” he commands, and just like that, the hands around his throat loosen. He’s dropped the rest of the way to the floor and Will staggers, his consciousness spread too thin to control his body, leaving him in a sprawl against the wall and managing to stay upright enough out of pure spite to keep his fingers digging into the thing’s temples. The creature stands before him, dead eyed and blank faced, Will’s blood running in rivulets off of his curved fingers.

And _completely_ under Will’s thrall.

“Who sent you?” Will demands, his voice hoarse and broken in pain, “Who fucking sent you after me?”

“My maker,” the thing answers obediently, then adds in a reverent whisper, “My _king_.”

“ _Will._ ”

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs, the part of his consciousness that he’s kept for himself recognizing the other man’s voice instantly, maybe instinctively. But the name isn’t whispered from his own lips, or in his own voice, but instead the vampire’s. “What...” he thinks, and watches the vampire’s toothy mouth form the word. Will has sunk so far into the creature’s mind that he’s using its voice to speak, and the knowledge of it shocks him enough that he drops his hands and comes back to himself with a fearful shout.

The vampire blinks at him hard, confused, then turns his head to look over his shoulder, where Will can see Hannibal standing at the top of the stairs on the landing. There is another one of his little coolers tucked under his arm, filled with god only knows what. Despite everything he now knows about him, Will starts to beg him to run, to save himself, but then he is struck momentarily dumb with the way the light flickering over his sharp features makes him look. He looks primeval, a larger than life version of the man Will has come to know with the shadows darkening the hollowed space of his eyes and pooling beneath his sharp cheekbones.

How did he ever think this man was human? His face, Will thinks blearily, looks like a skull.

He looks terrifying. He looks _beautiful._

He looks ready to tear the whole fucking world apart.

He looks ready to tear the world apart with his _teeth_ , perhaps, since Hannibal is snarling viciously at the creature who has cornered Will, not with a mouthful of horrific teeth like the other, but instead with just two long, pearly white fangs glinting in the still blinking light where his eyeteeth used to be.

Will stares, mind whirring, and only manages to tear his eyes away from the sight of Hannibal when he hears a strangled sound beside him. The vampire that attacked him, thus far not showing an ounce of emotion on his deformed face, now looks positively _terrified_ as he his black eyes flick between Will and Hannibal. A strange sound, like boots stuck in sucking mud, fills the utter silence as all the creature’s jagged teeth shrink away and its mouth returns mostly to normal, leaving the face of what looks to Will to be a young man, trembling in fear, his lightless eyes wide with the fear of a prey animal.

Will only feels a rush of air before he sees the blur of movement, and preternaturally fast, the creature standing between Will and Hannibal is abruptly gone without a trace.

With the threat gone and his power curling back in on itself, wounded, Will sways against the wall, darkness creeping in at the edges of his eyes.

“Hannibal?” he whispers, his voice thin and high, his again as much as it is not. His hands fold protectively over his abdomen, where he can feel firm slickness trying to spill out. Internal organs, he realizes blearily, his insides becoming his outsides, just like all the dead people in the woods. Just like his father.

The room starts to spin sharply.

At the sound of his voice, Hannibal’s eyes flicker from where the creature had disappeared to land squarely on him. Will feels his skin erupt in gooseflesh, all the fine hairs on his body standing on end, and he wonders if this is what others feel in the face of his own power. White-hot, murderous waves of rage roll off of Hannibal as his head swivels towards him in a reptilian way, his head tilted and chin raised, his nostrils flaring and his eyes wide enough to show white around the edges of pools of dried blood, and wilder than Will has ever seen them, every bit of the stoic passivity Will has quickly begun to cling to gone completely from his features.

Will laughs harshly when he realizes that, for all of the realizations he had earlier in the evening, he has no fucking _clue_ what’s going on. Hannibal isn’t what Will thought he was, and Will doesn’t have the strength to process this, any more than he has the strength to process what he just did to that vampire. The laugh ends abruptly as he begins to choke, and brings with it a mouthful of blood and bitter bile that spills past his teeth and over his chin.

He supposes he should be afraid, but he honestly doesn’t feel any fear. Hannibal is still looking at him as if _he_ is the one out of the pair of them that has revealed himself to be the thing of nightmares. He feels like he might laugh again at the absurdity of it, but instead he feels his legs finally giving out beneath him, and the last hysterical thought Will Graham has before the world tilts completely on its axis and he collapses in a bloody heap to the ground is that although it might be the last thing he ever does, finally, fucking _finally_ , after everything he's shown him, Will has finally managed to freak Hannibal out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimly, it dawns on him he’s escaped the clutches of one vampire, only to find himself in the clutches of another. He would laugh at the absurdity that is his life, he thinks, if he had the strength to survive another explosion of pain. He’s currently laboring under no such illusions.
> 
> - 
> 
> In which decisions are made on both sides that cannot be taken back.

“Will. _Will_.”

Seconds may have passed, or it may have been years for all he knows, but Will becomes aware of his name being repeated to him incessantly. He hurts so badly his mind is whited out with it, and he’s surprised he can feel anything besides the pain, honestly, but yet somehow he finds it within himself to be quite irritated by the voice pestering him and the hands on his shoulders shaking him awake from the first moment’s sleep he’s had in a week.

“Oh my god, fuck _off_ ,” he whines, then coughs up another mouthful of blood. The coppery, bitter taste brings him back to reality almost as quickly as the scorching flare of agony that the clench of his wrecked belly causes, and he moans desperately in pain as his body is moved, a strong arm banding beneath his back to sit him up slightly, causing more blood to spill down his chin.

“I will do no such thing,” he hears Hannibal say, and damn if he doesn’t manage to sound incredibly fond somehow, even through the fear in his voice. And there is fear in it, Will’s mind hazily latches on to it, even when it can’t quite discern anything else in the world at the moment besides the unrelenting agony he’s in. Why won’t Hannibal just let him rest?

“Will,” he hears Hannibal say, the words rolling off the other man’s tongue in his strange accent, clipped and, if he were anyone else, Will would say almost on the verge of panic, “I need you to open your eyes.” Will thinks about obeying, he really does, but all in all it feels like too much work. “Will, please,” Hannibal whispers, and something about his tone, just a hair’s breadth away from begging, catches the edges of Will’s consciousness, “Open your eyes for me.”

Will moans pitifully, and somehow does. They’re still in the stairwell, Will finds, that goddamn light flickering on and off behind Hannibal’s head, illuminating him in a blinking, eerie green halo. Not much else has changed in however long he was out, except that he’s in Hannibal’s arms, now, no longer laying in a pool of his own blood on the cold concrete floor.

Dimly, it dawns on him he’s escaped the clutches of one vampire, only to find himself in the clutches of another. He would laugh at the absurdity that is his life, he thinks, if he had the strength to survive another explosion of pain. He’s currently laboring under no such illusions.

Hannibal has Will cradled against his chest, his head tilted back limply and resting on his arm, looking up into Hannibal’s face. Will blinks at him rapidly, his vision blurry around the edges. He manages to focus first on Hannibal’s eyes, at the way his pupils are blown so wide they’ve almost completely eclipsed the reddish-brown of his irises. His face is bloody, Will realizes with a crease of his brow, and there’s blood in his teeth. His teeth, all perfectly normal except for the pair of razor-sharp fangs, all of them streaked with blood. Terrifying in its own way, but different from the animal-like faces of the vampires he’s met in more victim’s minds, now, than he cares to count.

He really has no idea what the fuck is going on, but he’s in no shape to ask. Really and truly, he reasons blearily, it won’t matter for much longer anyway. His eyes are growing heavy, closing on their own accord, and he doesn’t realize he’s spoken his thoughts out loud without meaning to until Hannibal growls, a desperate, fearsome sound, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

“Hold on,” he hisses as Will’s eyes close completely, and Will makes a pitiful sound as Hannibal shakes him again, his voice a harsh whisper, “Hold on for a little longer, Will, and I will tell you what the fuck is going on. I’ll tell you _anything_.”

Will manages to wrench his eyes open in surprise at the curse word, the way it sounds coming out of Hannibal’s aristocratic mouth. “Language,” he manages to wheeze, just like Hannibal is wont to do when the words Will learned in the boatyards with his father at a tender age slip into their conversations. It makes Hannibal smile, small and pained, somehow terrible looking and lovely at the same time with the blood staining his teeth.

Hannibal leans in and presses his lips to Will’s forehead, once, and when he pulls back, Will looks up to meet his eyes. He doesn’t really to seem to have control over his body, and he’s not sure if he actually commands his hand to rise shakily from where it lies limp against the cold, blood-soaked concrete, or if it does it by its own design. Either way, his hand raises to the other man’s face, and Will watches impassively as his fingers rest against his cheek. Hannibal stays stock still, the whites of his eyes visible in the flickering darkness as Will’s fingers spread against the sharp jut of his cheekbone, brush against his temple, in the same tender way in which he touches his corpses.

He doesn’t pull away.

As Will’s fingertips rasp against a bare amount of stubble on his cheek, he realizes that for all the times Hannibal has had his hands on him, healing or guiding or for no discernible reason at all, this is the first time he’s ever touched Hannibal.

It is, as well, the only time he’s seen Hannibal look afraid. Will supposes it will also be the last time for such experiences, as he’s as sure as he’s ever been of anything that he’s currently living the last moments of his life.

“I’m dying, aren’t I?” he asks, his voice a thin whisper from pain or his abused throat, or more likely both.

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers simply. Direct and to the point as he always is. Will has appreciated that about him, even if he knows now he hasn’t been entirely honest, and this time is no different. He nods his head, accepting this fact. He thinks of death, of his first experience with it: the dead man in the woods, the way he felt so ready to meet his end when Will visited the inside of his mind as a child. Will isn’t sure he’s ready like the man was, but in this moment, in Hannibal’s arms, he’s not sure that if he _has_ to die, that this isn’t the worst way to go.

“Will,” Hannibal presses, pulling Will back from where his mind has wandered—this what being in shock must feel like, Will muses—and Hannibal’s voice is hoarse, his expression unsure as he whispers, “Do you want to live?”

Even half-drunk and half-gutted, Will knows a loaded question when he hears one. “At what cost?” he asks shakily, “I don’t want to be what you are.”

Hannibal smiles, and damn him, he looks lovely as he does it, even with his pale skin and dark eyes, even with the blood around his mouth and dripping from his sharp fangs. Maybe _because_ of it, if Will is honest with himself. “You will only ever be just as you are, I am afraid,” Hannibal murmurs, reaching up to stroke Will’s hair back from his face. He feels something cool drip onto his cheek, and Will’s eyes widen as he shifts his gaze to catch sight of Hannibal’s wrist, the flesh there torn deep enough to expose white bone. Hannibal watches Will’s eyes move to the wound, make sense of where the blood on the vampire’s teeth and mouth has come from, and then flicker back to him in question as he asks, “Do you trust me, Will?”

This time, Will can’t help but laugh no matter how much it hurts, his head lolling where it rests against Hannibal’s shoulder, and moves his thumb to stroke once down the length of one of Hannibal’s fangs, physical proof of what the other man has hidden from him since the moment they met. Hannibal’s breath catches roughly in his throat at the touch. “Fuck no,” Will manages to whisper weakly as another trickle of blood spills from the corner of his mouth, and Will’s hand falls limply away, lacking the strength to hold it up anymore.

Hannibal’s eyes fall closed and he takes in a shuddering breath, from his words or his touch, Will isn’t sure. But when he opens them again, his eyes are blazing in the darkness. He offers Will his wrist, bleeding sluggishly, dripping over Will’s chest to mingle with his own blood that has ended up basically everywhere but inside of him where it belongs. “Please, Will,” he says softly, his deep voice rumbling through Will where he’s held tightly to his chest, so that Will feels every word when he whispers, “It can’t end like this.”

And it can’t, can it? There is so much Will doesn’t understand, it’s true, but as he stares up into the eyes of a creature he knows for sure now is somehow different than the others, he realizes just how desperately he wants to live. Some righteous part of him wants finish what he’s started, for his father, for those dead people and their families discarded in the woods like trash, for the victims that may be out there right now breathing their last breaths just as he is. He has a job to do, and Hannibal is right; he can’t let that job come to an end before it is done.

A smaller, quieter part of him, though, is somehow the loudest, screaming at him that the _this_ that can’t end is _them_.

His heart makes its decision without consulting with his brain. With the last of his strength leaving him quickly, Will weakly nods his head. Hannibal hesitates for such a brief moment, Will isn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. But then he moves, using his other hand to cradle the back of Will’s head, and then brings his bleeding wrist to his increasingly slack mouth, letting the blood drip slowly and sluggishly past Will’s lips.

For his part, Will is clinging onto consciousness, blackness creeping in around the edges of his vision that he’s sure, should the darkness win over the light, would be the end for him; all that he’s been, all that he is, and all that he has the potential to ever be, snuffed out in a grungy apartment stairwell. Sensation is slowly being chased from his body; his vision dimming, his fingers barely curling in a feeble twitch when he wants so desperately to reach for Hannibal.

He’s cold, so cold in fact that the first drops of Hannibal’s blood on his tongue feel warm, and he barely hears Hannibal’s rough voice whisper, “Will, _drink_.”

He tries to obey the command, but all he can accomplish is opening his mouth a little wider, allowing the blood to pool on his tongue and around his teeth. He swallows reflexively when it hits the back of his throat, and feels Hannibal shudder bodily against him, at the same time a moan escapes Will unbidden as the taste of Hannibal hits him full force.

Because it’s _incredible_ , the taste, zinging back and forth all over Will’s tastebuds; sweet and tart not unlike the wine Hannibal has served him, but deep and bitter like dark chocolate. Under it all, it tastes like life and it tastes like death and abruptly, Will wants it more desperately than anything, _anything,_ and he’s consumed with the intrusive thought that it’s _his_ , his to take, his to make his own.

With a surge of strength, Will manages to raise his hand once more, grasping at Hannibal’s wrist with his bloodstained fingers. He pulls the wound more tightly against his mouth, presses his lips around the ragged edges of the other man’s flesh, and _sucks_.

Someone is breathing heavily, and someone groans, and Will isn’t sure if it’s him or Hannibal or if it’s both of them together. All he knows is that Hannibal is clutching Will to him and Will, as life trickles slowly back into his limbs, begins to cling to Hannibal all the same. Will’s eyes roll back as he draws hard on the wound, greedily swallowing down another mouthful of that rich, dark liquid, and when the flow of blood begins to slow there’s no conscious thought, no reservation, that keeps Will from baring his own bloodstained teeth in a vicious snarl before he bites down, teeth sinking hard into cool flesh ravenously for more.

The sound Hannibal makes is so inhuman Will’s flesh breaks out in goosebumps in a prey animal’s instinctive reaction, an ancient fear buried somewhere deep in his lizard brain. Will ignores it, gripping Hannibal tighter, sucking harder, instincts overridden by how urgently he _wants._

Hannibal growls sharply and wrenches his wrist away, his voice sounding like broken glass as he whispers roughly, “ _Enough_ ,” and grips Will’s chin hard to stop him when he lunges to bite again. But it’s _not_ enough; not for Will, and if the lost, starved look on his face when he runs his shaking fingers through Will’s hair is anything to go by, it’s not enough for Hannibal either.

The touch feels proprietary, and Will feels marked by it, and a foreign need to mark in return swells within him until he feels fit to burst with it.

He doesn’t get the chance to act on that need. With the connection severed, the surge of energy Will felt leaves him in a rush, and he wilts against Hannibal’s chest, moaning brokenly when the other man shifts him to hold him closer. There are questions and accusations burbling to Will’s lips along with blood—his _and_ Hannibal’s—but he lacks the strength to voice them. He feels an alien sensation creeping along the map of blood vessels throughout his body, spreading out underneath his skin in a way that feels like its growing to some violent, terrifying crescendo, like running full-speed towards the edge of a cliff, and Will shudders, scared to death of what awaits on the other side, feeling like he will blow apart and turn to dust when the feeling hits its peak.

He doesn’t feel like he’s dying anymore. He feels like he’s about to shed his skin. He feels like he might be screaming, his throat feels raw with it, his whole body feels raw, as if he’s being flayed alive.

“Hannibal,” Will cries out, voice high and afraid, searching out and meeting Hannibal’s eyes, and they’re so black, no red left in them, whatever humanity he held on to having drained out of him along with the blood he spilled for Will, “What—”

Will’s voice fractures, white-hot agony surging through him like an electric shock, and he jerks weakly in Hannibal’s arms with the force of it, his muscles cramping and seizing, his blood burning in his veins. He feels a hand on his cheek, impossibly cool against his burning skin, gets a disjointed glimpse of Hannibal’s face as he looms into his vision through Will’s fluttering eyelids. He doesn’t look any less inhuman, but his cold, dark eyes are soft, and if Will didn’t know any better he would think he looks as though he’s about to swoon.

He’s saying something, looking dreadful and resplendent in equal parts to Will’s eyes as he whispers through his red teeth, and Will loves him and hates him just as equally. Hannibal smiles down at him with his bloody mouth, and he’s the most beautiful thing Will has ever seen.

“Sweet boy,” he hears Hannibal say, as he feels consciousness slipping once more through his fingers, “You terrible, wondrous thing.”

It’s the last thing Will hears before his world abruptly cuts to black.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You lied to me,” Will hears himself murmur, his voice soft and far-away.
> 
> This time when Hannibal smiles, even though its no less soft and sweet, his lips part enough to show a glint of his sharp, white fangs.
> 
> “Did I?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will wakes to find some things have changed, and some things have not.

Moonlight, bright and beautiful, spills through the room.

Will can’t quite place its source, just that it exists. He can feel it, even though he hasn’t yet bothered to open his eyes; can see it through his heavy lids, a pale bluish-purple hue. He knows it bathes him, knows instinctively he’s wearing the moonlight and nothing else. It’s a cool caress, but Will is warm, awash with comfort, with belonging, with safety the likes of which he has never known.

He shivers when he feels cool fingertips settle at the nape of his neck, then trace the long curve of his throat up to the point of his shoulder. They barely make contact, just enough to raise goosebumps in their wake as they continue on down his arm, and Will smiles contentedly, burrowing down into the soft, cool pillow under his cheek with a sigh.

“You’re awake.”

Will feels himself smiling wider at the voice, rough and grumbly and fond, accent thicker than what he’s become accustomed to hearing. The fingers touching him pull away from his arm and settle instead against his side, in the ever-so-slight curve of his hip. They tighten there and tug, and Will goes without argument, finally opening his eyes as he turns over to his other side, facing the source of the purring voice.

Hannibal smiles sweetly at him as he settles, and Will drinks him in greedily; the way the dark silky sheets make his pale skin glow, the way his hair—normally so irritatingly perfect—lies across his brow in a lazy spill. He looks less severe this way, softer without his usual suit of armor, and Will marvels at it, the lines around his face gentled but for the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that he longs to feel beneath his fingertips.

The other man is as bare as he is, mirroring Will’s position, and as Hannibal reaches for him their eyes meet across the gulf of blood red sheets covering the pillows they both lie upon. Will feels himself smile as he tilts his head into Hannibal’s touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he feels a thumb caress the corner of his mouth. “Am I?” he asks after a moment, opening his eyes again when he feels Hannibal shift closer. His eyes don’t leave his face, not sure he could look away even if he wanted to, and he _doesn’t_ want to. Not now, not ever. But even still he recognizes the haziness of the room around him, the dark blue walls he’s never seen before, of the light that seems to have no source, the unrealistic quality of the room itself that doesn’t seem to quite exist in any tangible form outside of the confines of the bed they share. “I’m dreaming,” he hears himself say, and once the words are spoken, he knows them to be true.

“Does that matter?” Hannibal asks, his words running together in a purr that seems to resonate outwards from deep within his chest. Will reaches out without thought, without hesitation, crossing the minute chasm between them to press his palm against the other man’s chest, above his heart. He closes his eyes, feels the course softness of hair and the lingering vibration beneath his fingers as Hannibal makes a soft, pleased sound, and covers Will’s hand with his own, his other hand still stroking his cheek, whisper-soft.

 _Does_ it matter? Will can’t seem to remember for a long moment, can’t seem to remember why he’s avoided intimacy such as this his whole life. All he can think of is how comfortable he is, how safe he feels, how wonderful and comforting Hannibal’s skin smells, how soft it is beneath the smattering of hair separating it from his palm.

Even when he registers that there is no heart beating under his hand, he doesn’t feel any different. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a trickle of blood at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, darkening his soft, sculpted lips, and Will knows with the same certainty that he knows his own name that the blood is _his._

“You lied to me,” he hears himself murmur, his voice soft and far-away.

This time when Hannibal smiles, even though its no less soft and sweet, his lips part enough to show a glint of his sharp, white fangs. “Did I?” he asks, and his voice rough, almost sleepy, full of the same unbearable fondness that Will feels spreading thick and warm through his own chest. He pulls Will’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against his palm, leaving behind a smear of blood when he releases it to bring himself closer in a smooth ripple of finely honed muscle. “From the moment we met, Will, I have wanted to see you, to _know_ you,” he whispers, cupping Will’s cheek, and Will is nothing less than malleable, allowing Hannibal’s careful hands to draw him closer, “From the moment we met, I knew you were the only one who could see and know me in return.”

Will holds his gaze, reaching out for him again, this time to touch his fingers to his jaw. His eyes drop to watch the movement of his thumb as it presses against Hannibal’s lips, which part to allow him to stroke down one elongated tooth. Hannibal bodily shivers, and Will feels a flash of recognition pushing in around the soft edges of his dream—feeling the man shiver from the same touch as he clung to him like a limpet, in agony, _dying_. “I see you, now,” Will murmurs, tracing the trickle of blood drying at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth and down to his chin, “The scales have fallen from my eyes.”

When Hannibal smiles, he is _so_ beautiful, and in the moonlight the blood gleams black and right against his pale skin, and Will wants and covets and _aches_. And he knows he’s dreaming just as well as he knows he’s dying, and Hannibal is right, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t _matter_.

He pulls Hannibal against him as if to kiss him, but diverts from his lips at the last second to instead lap lingeringly at the blood on his chin, a soft moan escaping him at the intimacy of tasting himself in such a way. A desperate sound breaks loose from Hannibal at the sweet touch of Will’s tongue, and then there’s a hand in Will’s hair, wrenching their mouths together where Will drowns in the taste of their blood mingling together on their lips with no desire to come up for air.

*

Will breaches consciousness again, just in time to catch the tail-end of his own soft, breathy moan, his hand twitching, wanting to reach blindly in the darkness for the cool skin that has disappeared from beneath his fingertips, to allow his body to bow against the solid, comforting, _familiar_ weight that he’s positive was only just now pressing him down into the obscene softness surrounding him.

His mind is clouded, his head feeling heavy as if it’s been stuffed with wet cotton, but nonetheless he quickly registers that the body he’s searching for is not there.

“ _I’m dreaming.”_

“ _Does that matter?”_

Reality descends upon him with all the finesse of an anvil dropping on his head, like one of the cartoons he watched with his dad when he was a kid. The hard and uncomfortable mattress beneath him is nothing like the one in his dreams, and the lazy stretch he was in the middle of attempting mere seconds earlier has awoken pain that robs him of his breath, searing hot across his abdomen. He still tastes blood in his mouth—very real blood, this time, not the product of his overactive imagination—he fucking _hurts_ , and yet he’s pretty sure he’s somehow still managing to maintain an impressive erection.

Despite the pain, he forces himself to sit up, groaning pitifully into the relative silence of his apartment at the pull across his stomach. He manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed and collapse over his knees, burying his face in his hands for a moment as his head swims from the movement.

He takes a deep breath, and with it comes a bevy of scents: mostly, the discovery of how rank he is from the sweat he’s drenched in, but also the scent of Indian food, most likely coming from the elderly couple down the hall, car exhaust from outside, mold in the walls. Blood, old and stale. Blood, strangely sweet. Perhaps the lightest scents he can make out, however, is the one that sticks in his throat and tugs at his insides like puppet strings in ways he feels but doesn’t understand: aftershave, no doubt hideously expensive. Freshly dry cleaned clothing. An old forest in winter, blanketed in snow, that feels like home in a way he has never understood the word.

 _Hannibal_.

He lingers here, in more than just the afterimages of Will’s dream, the thought of which brings a flush to his cheeks even now. Just thinking the man’s name causes a stir again in his gut, but this time with his faculties mostly about him it’s easy enough to tamp them down with the righteous anger that burns through him at the thought of the man he _knew_ had to be too good to be true.

Will takes a ragged breath, and opens his eyes, blinking furiously at the tears that burn in his eyes. He has no time for that now, when he needs answers.

When his eyes focus, he only finds more questions, though. First and foremost, he finds himself to be wearing some sort of sinfully soft nightshirt that he most certainly doesn’t own and had no idea even existed outside of Ebeneezer Scrooge’s closet. He has no idea how it got here to his shabby apartment, or further still how it got on his body, but he certainly has an idea. Feeling confused and ridiculous he throws back the covers and climbs shakily to his bare feet.

He is unable to do so without another groan of pain, and his arm automatically wraps protectively around his middle as he reaches out to steady himself against the wall. He slowly makes his way to his tiny kitchen, propping himself up carefully against the sink so that he can lean over and bang the faucet on. He doesn’t realize just how thirsty he is until he cups some water against his dry lips with a trembling hand, but then he can’t stop, guzzling down mouthful after mouthful of the blissfully cool—if not a little rusty from the aged pipes of his apartment building—water. He stops only when he feels on the verge of being sick, and pulls away, gasping for breath and lunging for the trash can just in case.

The sick feeling passes, but not before he gets a good look at what lies within the can. Medical supplies—gauze soaked in blood that has since turned brown, a curved needle with black suture still attached. He pulls away, feeling along his belly where it hurts the most through the soft material of his nightgown (because there’s no other word for it, he’s wearing a fucking _nightgown,_ what the _fuck_ ). Through it, he can feel raised ridges that are tender enough to make him swallow hard. As he shuffles his way to the small bathroom, his stomach turns at the memory of feeling claws tearing into him, rendering him into so much meat.

His legs feel a little more steady beneath him by the time he finally makes it to the bathroom, but he’s breathing hard and every ragged breath makes the skin of his abdomen pull uncomfortably tight across his belly. He steels himself, before reaching down to tug up the hem of the shirt, grunting in discomfort as he pulls it up and over his head.

It flutters limply to the floor beside him when he peers into the dirty, cracked mirror over his sink.

With trembling fingers, he reaches down to touch what he sees. Five jagged, raised scars left behind by the vampire that cornered him in the stairwell; angry red and oozing, still, but closed carefully by rows and rows of neat little black stitches that stand out starkly against his pale skin. He holds his breath, swallowing hard against the sickness that wells up when he presses his palm against them, feeling the heat of them beneath his hand while remembering how it felt when he was clutching at himself, desperately trying to hold in the slippery wetness that was trying to slip out of him.

Hannibal had held him in his arms, looked down at him as he gasped out what were meant to be his last breaths, and asked him, “ _Do you want to live?_ ”

Will hadn’t known how badly he wanted to continue on existing until that moment.

Hannibal saved his life, apparently by sharing with him some of his own. And then, he must have brought him to his own bed, closed his wounds with care, cleaned him up and dressed him and then _left_ him to awaken awash with confusion and unanswered questions, and a raging fucking hard-on due to a dream that felt more real than anything even his own not insignificant imagination could conjure up. A dream about a man who is not even a man, a creature who has killed who knows how many and—

 _Does that matter_?

Will’s gaze is still locked on his wounds, his fingers trailing over the puckers of flesh around the carefully placed sutures. There’s no telling how much time has passed since that night, but he’s had enough stitches in his life to know when it’s nearing time for them to come out, and these are getting awfully close to that point. He could swear, even in the scant few minutes he’s spent in front of the mirror, that the scars have turned a shade less red, that some of the feverish heat has leached out of them beneath his probing fingertips.

How is that even possible, to heal so quickly from such a grave injury? Unless...

With a sharp stab of panic, remembering the vague answer Hannibal gave when Will told him he didn’t want to be what he is without truly answering anything at all, he hurls himself gracelessly towards the mirror so that he can wrench up his lip and study his teeth, his gums, poking and prodding at them and finding nothing amiss, except for the shocking rankness of his breath as it fogs the mirror inches from his face.

No fangs, then.

So he isn’t a vampire, either of Hannibal’s variety or one of the other creatures, like the one that attacked him. He doesn’t understand it one bit, but his mind tells him the lingering taste of blood in his mouth holds the answers. Rather than face them, he squeezes out too much toothpaste onto his toothbrush and vigorously brushes the taste away before turning on the shower as hot as it will go and shakily climbing in.

His water pressure sucks, but it still feels like heaven under the pitiful spray, and for a moment all he can do is brace himself against the wall with one forearm and let the mostly hot water pour down his back and try his damnedest not to think. But even with the minty taste of toothpaste in his mouth, his mind keeps being drawn back to the way Hannibal’s blood had tasted, the way it made him feel alive even as he was dying. These thoughts inevitably bring him back to the dream he has tried so valiantly to let fade away in the way dreams normally do, but it’s still there in the forefront of his mind with noise and clarity like it had actually happened. The soft whisper of silken sheets, the cool press of skin against his, the taste of fresh blood in Hannibal’s sharp-toothed mouth and the bone-deep knowledge that it was _his_ , that he had fed him because he wanted to and he wanted to do it again, and again, because despite everything he knows he _loves_ —

Will’s own pitiful moan shakes him from his thoughts. He doesn’t quite remember when he had reached down to wrap a hand around his dick, but it’s there now, and despite his pain and exhaustion he’s achingly hard and it’s way too late to stop. He comes seconds later with his forehead pressed against his grimy shower wall, his lips pulled tight across his teeth in a snarl and his eyes burning traitorously with tears.

He presses his eyes hard against his forearm, still braced against the wall, and cries. Or he means to, at least—only a few rough, racking sobs escape him, torn from somewhere deep within him that was far too recently put back together by Hannibal’s steady hands. He should have known. He should have _known_. In fact, he has to admit to himself that some part of him _did_ know: how many times had he thought that the man, their quick friendship, his quick acceptance of all of Will’s darkness, _everything_ was too good to be true?

The water has grown cold, and Will forces himself to push away from the wall and stand beneath the spray, the iciness of it a fitting punishment in his eyes for allowing himself to be so utterly deceived. He scrubs at his face, ridding himself of the evidence of his tears, and then sets about a perfunctory wash, scrubbing cheap shampoo through his hair and then running over his body quickly with even cheaper soap.

He turns off the water and gets out, drying himself off quickly with unnecessary roughness using a towel that is far past needing to be laundered. When he’s done and his hair is mostly dry, he allows himself another look in the mirror. He doesn’t _look_ like a man who has very recently all but kicked the proverbial bucket (nor one that just cried in the shower, although he’s already doing his best to forget about that completely). Instead, he finds his curls look glossy, his eyes bright without their usual dark circles beneath them, his cheeks are rosy and his pale skin gleaming...the picture of perfect health.

He _really_ needs some answers.

He stuffs the weird nightgown into the tiny trashcan in the bathroom, unable to bear its very existence a second longer, and leaves the room for the main living area. It takes him a few moments to dig out something to wear—yesterday’s jeans aren’t an option this time since he’s sure that, wherever they are, they’re drenched in blood. At any rate, the thought of rough denim against his belly is enough to make him cringe, and when he realizes this is no doubt why Hannibal thought to dress him in something so soft and loose his heart clenches so hard he can’t breathe for a moment. When he manages to shake himself, he pulls on a pair of worn-thin plaid pajama pants and a stained white t-shirt, before tucking his feet sockless into his old brown boots.

His phone is missing, he discovers during a quick search, and although he supposes it could be he highly doubts it is an accident. Who does Hannibal think he will call? Jack Crawford, who doesn’t believe him anyway, even when he’s gasping at crime scenes about vampires in front of the corpses they left behind? He remembers perfectly the way Hannibal mentioned inviting Jack and his wife to his dinner table _again._ What would Jack say if Will called, no doubt hysterical, to claim his acquaintance is a vampire, too _?_

At least, Will realizes abruptly, he’s most likely not the only one being fed human remains.

_Speaking of…_

Will crosses his small apartment as quickly as he’s able to the refrigerator, flinging open the door. Never having bothered to turn on any of the lights—now that he thinks about it, he hadn’t really needed to..another question to add to the mire swimming around in his groggy mind—he blinks blearily into the bright light pouring from within. His eyes take a moment to focus, but when they do, he’s faced with the exact same refrigerator he left behind when he drug himself to the lab—how many days ago was it, now? He has no idea, he realizes abruptly, how long he’s been out.

His hand shakes as he reaches within the cool confines of the fridge, his fingers unerringly finding one of the stainless steel containers that showed up on his doorstep as if via magic. As he holds it in his hand, he feels a wave of sickness wash over him just thinking about how he had sat on his threadbare couch and enjoyed the meals Hannibal brought to him, his heart as full as his belly quickly became just from the novelty of having someone care for him in a way that no one—not even his father, who was more likely to spend their grocery money on booze—ever has before.

Another sob attempts to escape him, but he stifles it before it can break free. Instead, he opens the container with trembling fingers to find what was left of the grilled heart Hannibal had made for him. His vision swims, from tears and from lightheadedness both, as he clamps the lid back onto the container tightly and hating himself for a thousand reasons, not the least of which because of the way his stomach rumbles traitorously at how delicious he still finds the smell.

He turns, his legs feeling as weak as a fawn’s, and leans heavily against the door. The hand not still clutching the container rises to press his thumb and forefinger into his eyes until it hurts before dragging his hand down his face and over several days worth of scruff. Staring blankly into the small empty space of his apartment, once again shuttered in darkness, he forces himself to _think_.

Hannibal Lecter is a cannibal—although he hadn’t ever ate much more than a bite or two in front of him, he still _ate people_. And what’s more, he seems to greatly enjoy inflicting cannibalism on others. Will has evidence of this in the fridge running loud and cool against his back. And he must know that Will knows—he, Will realizes abruptly, _wanted_ Will to know. He fed him heart and liver and kidneys and fucking _sausage_ without even bothering to mask what it was he was eating. He had laid out the man they came from for Will to find…

...and Will had called it _art_.

He wishes mightily that current events had rendered that observation untrue, but to pretend it has would be a lie that he can’t tell, not even to himself. He remembers each meal, better than anything that has passed his lips in his entire life; dinner meant to soothe after a particularly rough crime scene, breakfast served with a grimace when Will dared to call it _brinner_ just to tease him, suppers lovingly made and left at his door to ensure he was staying nourished even when Hannibal wasn’t around to enjoy the vicarious thrill of watching what Will was consuming unknowingly. He desperately wishes he could blame the sickness he feels on what Hannibal’s victims must have suffered, on the outrage he should feel to be taken advantage of in such away.

He knows though, in his heart, that it all boils down self pity.

Perhaps in another life the realization that someone who he had come to trust implicitly—someone he had come to _love_ , a whisper in some darkened corner of his mind is glad to remind him—was hiding something so dark and twisted would be enough to break him, but oh, it pales in comparison to what has really broken Will’s heart. He feels it now, a sharp rending pain like claws in his chest not unlike what he felt when he was in the monster’s clutches, or what he’s felt in the last moments of so many others, starting with his father.

Hannibal Lecter is a _vampire_. Whatever differences there are between him and the others can’t possibly be more than semantics, can they? He is what Will has been hunting all his life, since one of his kind killed his father and stole from him what little childhood he had managed to carve out for himself. He is the antithesis of everything Will’s life has come to stand for, and had sat there with that fucking placid expression on his face as Will told him of the horror he lived through with his father, the horrors that haunt him to this very day. Will had let him in, and had allowed him to become his paddle in the torrential rapids of his life, had allowed himself to fall in—

 _No_.

He throws the container— _evidence_ , another corner of his mind not so cast in shadow loudly reminds him—back into the refrigerator hard enough that he hears something crack and slams the door behind it, backing shakily away from it as if the appliance itself is a threat. His eyes burn, and he reaches up to rub them hard with the heels of his palms until he sees golden sparks blooming behind his closed lids, and then drops his hands limply at his sides.

He knows right from wrong. He knows what he _should_ do.

He should gather up the food in his fridge— _human remains_ , the last sane part of his brain screams at him—and take them straight to the lab at the BAU. His tenuous friendship with Beverly is enough that he’s reasonably sure he could convince her to look at them off the books, just on the off chance that he’s wrong about this (wishful thinking—he knows he’s not). He could go to Jack Crawford, tell him what he’s learned, knowing that for all the man mistrusts his abilities there’s no way he could discount the cold, hard evidence that would be before him.

Cold, hard evidence that Hannibal left behind, linking him directly to at least one of his sins. He left it, even though he knows Will would make this leap. _No_ , he thinks, shaking his head hard. That’s not right, is it? Hannibal had _counted_ on it, orchestrating his reveal to Will as easily as puppet master pulls strings, knowing that Will would be the one to see it.

_I knew you were the only one who could see and know me in return._

Did he leave it as a test? Did he leave it because he _trusts_ him?

Because he _does_ , doesn’t he? Hannibal trusted him enough to reveal himself, in more ways than one, even knowing what Will might do with that knowledge. He saved him, when Will knows that it would have been much more neat and tidy for Hannibal just to let him die, a loose end snipped and simply discarded.

But he didn’t. He saved him, put him back together, and even though he tries not to, Will can picture him at it with perfect clarity. Those hands that make Will feel inexplicably safe just to look at, impossibly steady, at work piecing him back together. The slight furrow in his brow from concentration. How gently and efficiently he must have cleaned him, dressed him, clinical up until the very moment that maybe he wasn’t, until he might have allowed his fingers to touch Will’s cheek as he slept, as they did in Will’s dream, as they did in his study that night when he looked Will in the eye and swore to him he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

Will fell in love that night, and even knowing what he does, he knows he loves him still. More, perhaps, armed now with the full understanding of just how alone Hannibal must be, too.

Will knows right from wrong, just as he knows black from white. But in this moment, Will realizes his world is awash with gray.

He knows what he _should_ do.

But in the end, he leaves the refrigerator closed with the evidence still hidden safely away inside, and turns away, a hand pressed to his stitched together stomach as he hobbles towards the door.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have watched legions of human beings take their last breaths, either by my own hand or by others just like them; watched as Death paid his visit upon them,” Hannibal murmurs, close enough now that Will can see himself reflected in his pupils as he whispers, a benediction, “How many times, sweet boy, do you think I felt the need to intervene?”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal and Will meet again on the same side of the veil.

Between remembering that he had last seen his car in some terrible part of town in front of a dive bar, and the fact that his phone is nowhere to be found, Will discovered quickly that leaving his apartment was more difficult than he had originally planned.

Eventually, he manages to hail a cab and collapse into the back of it. After rattling off the address of his destination, he stays hunkered down there in the back seat, fuming and trembling with it, lost in his thoughts and paying no mind whatsoever to the cab driver’s attempts at conversation or the music playing through the speakers, voices singing in a language he doesn’t know but happy and cheerful all the same.

Instead, his mind runs in increasingly wide and frantic circles, coming to no conclusions whatsoever. Added to everything that he was already worrying about, he had managed to spot the date on a newspaper, for sale in a stand on the street corner in front of his apartment.

According to the date, he was attacked just the night before. Less than twenty-four hours had passed, and despite the severity of the wounds he was dealt, he was somehow up and walking. Shaky and hurting, yes; but up and on his way.

On his way, he thinks bitterly, to a _monster_. A monster that whatever part of him hasn’t gone absolutely insane knows he should be on his way to _end._

But even as that part of him feebly attempts to convince the rest of him to fall in line, he knows he’s failed before he even began. He’s about to show up at a vampire’s house, unannounced, unarmed, and that’s not even considering the ache in his heart he feels at the very thought.

The sun is beginning to set in the sky when he finds himself stepping out onto the curb in front of Hannibal’s house, no closer to concluding what exactly he hopes to accomplish by being there. Briefly, he considers the vampire lore he and everyone else on earth is aware of, and wonders if he might be safer standing outside in the still-too-bright sunlight until it’s gone altogether. But he quickly remembers he is— _apparently_ —not terribly concerned with being safe, and after looking about to make sure no one made note of his arrival, he pulls out his wallet and strides as purposefully as he’s able in his condition towards the front door.

He pulls out a discount card, forced upon him on a rare visit to some big box store. He’s fully prepared to pull out skills he learned long ago on the streets after his father died to slip the lock, but when his hand lands on the gilded door handle, he’s somewhat surprised to find it tilting downward easily. Hannibal’s neighborhood is far better than Will’s, but he’s still in Baltimore, and he certainly has valuables inside that need protection, and yet his front door is unlocked and no alarm makes a sound when he silently opens it and steps into the darkness within.

Will supposes he really doesn’t need it, though. Despite everything, he damn near smiles at the thought of some hapless fool attempting a break-in _here_.

He tells himself that it’s in the name of stealth when he toes off his boots at the door, not in deference to Hannibal’s unspoken rule that this be done during all his other visits. Even though he creeps quietly down the hallway in his bare feet towards the kitchen—where else would he go?—he doesn’t fool himself into thinking that the creature he’s stalking doesn’t already know that he’s there. He knows it to be true, in fact; knows it in a way he doesn’t know how to explain even to himself. The closer he comes to his destination, the more his blood pounds in his ears, sings in his veins.

Perhaps it’s not his blood at all, he realizes belatedly, his steps faltering to a stop in the doorway to the kitchen. It’s the blood that’s _not_ his, pulling him unerringly to return to its source.

Its source is currently standing with his back to Will at the kitchen counter. He’s dressed down—for him, anyway—in a snowy white collared shirt, and for a moment despite himself Will is utterly entranced at the movement of his shoulders and back beneath the starched fabric as the man—the _vampire_ , Will tries to remind his disloyal brain—kneads something on the counter, just out of Will’s line of sight thanks to the bulk of his body between them. His movements are rhythmic, hypnotizing, as he arches up to press down hard on whatever it is he’s working on. Will despises himself for the way his mouth waters, either at the thought of eating whatever he’s making or the sight of man himself, it hardly matters, it’s all wrong, _wrong_.

“Will,” Hannibal says without stopping what he’s doing, confirming that he’s known Will was there all along. Just the sound of his voice, now, hearing it for the first time after the dream he is trying so hard to forget, makes him feel as though the fine hairs all over his body are standing on end. His only answer to the greeting is to swallow loudly enough it sounds deafening in the silence, and he steps further into the room as Hannibal adds, “I found myself unsure as to rather or not you would come.”

Will’s answering laugh is short and mirthless. “As if you didn’t have every bit of this planned,” he replies, his voice hoarse as he utters his first words aloud since he awoke in his apartment, so carefully put back together by hands belonging to the vampire in front of him, hands that are currently doing...whatever it is they are doing.

Will’s curiosity is too much in the end, and despite his hastily put together plan to keep his distance, he finds himself creeping closer, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor beneath them. As he rounds the counter, he’s forced to take a deep breath through his nose and fight to keep his face expressionless as he finds his answer. He supposes part of him had hoped Hannibal was doing something innocuous like kneading dough, but _of course_ he isn’t, _of course_ he has a set of human lungs on his bamboo cutting board, pink as bubblegum but for the spots of dark red blood that also stains Hannibal’s hands.

He presses the lungs flat one more time for good measure, then stops, turning his eyes on Will for the first time. The lights are dim, but his eyes shine as he looks Will over from head to bare toes and back again, lingering for just a moment on his stomach before returning to his face. His expression is incomprehensible, so much so that Will can barely stand to look at him, can’t begin to parse out all he sees there; relief, trepidation, something intolerably tender that softens the lines around his mouth and eyes, that Will feels like a physical touch in the center of his chest. He stands there, blood streaking his hands and up his forearms, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, looking at Will like he’s been lost in the desert and Will is a glass of cool water.

After a moment of looking his fill, Hannibal’s lips part to speak. “I tried to plan,” he admits, his voice and accent like velvet brushing against Will’s skin, “But with all my knowledge and intuition regarding the human condition, Will, I could never begin to predict you.”

Will feels the other man’s words like a caress and like needles in the marrow of his bones all at once, but he somehow manages to scrape together the wherewithal to shake his head, his lips pulling tight against his teeth in the semblance of a snarl. “Even an idiot could predict that flattery would get you nowhere,” he hisses, his hands balling into fists at his sides, “Not with me.”

At this, Hannibal only smiles his maddening half-smile. “I wouldn’t dare to even think so, much less to try,” he replies, and there is pride coloring his voice. Will tenses but refuses to give ground as Hannibal moves, picking up the cutting board with the organ on top of it that used to give some poor soul their lifebreath. Will’s eyes track his movements, coming closer to him as he rounds the kitchen island and only daring to breathe again when Hannibal has moved away to the sink. He slides the lungs into a waiting ice bath in a deep bowl placed in one side of the basin, the cutting board beside it, then moves to the other side to wash the gore from his hands. With his back to him once again, Will can’t see Hannibal’s expression when he asks in a conversational tone, “How are you feeling, my dear?”

Will jolts as if touched by a livewire at the question, his teeth gritting together so hard that his jaw aches. “How am I _feeling_?” he repeats incredulously, and snarls at the other man’s back, “How the _fuck_ do you think I’m feeling, Hannibal?”

Hannibal doesn’t respond right away, instead turning off the water and then taking up a dish towel to dry his hands. When he’s done, he folds it meticulously, before placing it parallel to the edge of the sink. He twitches it into its correct position with his fingers, and his shoulders move with a deep breath, before he finally turns to face him. This time, there’s less distance between them as he looks Will over again, more critically than longingly this time, his eyes lingering in some places and traveling over others more than once. “You certainly look well,” he murmurs, his expression warm and fond in the face of Will’s righteous anger, adding as an afterthought, “The stitches should be ready to come out, now.”

“The stitches—” Will starts and then stops abruptly, his voice ratcheting up an octave higher to almost a shout, “ _Fuck_ the stitches, Hannibal.”

“Language,” Hannibal chides gently, and smirks at the thunderous anger that explodes across Will’s features in response, incensed that Hannibal would try to disarm him with some warped version of a private joke. He leans back against the counter, at ease as he always is in this room, wetting his lips thoughtfully before he murmurs, “So, you did not come here to discuss your physical wounds.”

“You _lied_ to me,” Will spits out, wishing that his voice didn’t shake so violently with the words, but they feel as though they’ve been caught behind his lips for weeks, _years_ , instead of only a day, raging against the barrier of his teeth, desperate to break free.

Hannibal doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, merely continues gazing at Will across the short breadth of distance between them. “Did I?” he whispers, soft, and Will is forced to shut his eyes for a moment as reality and his dream momentarily cross paths until one bleeds heavily into the other. He feels his rage and the aching distance between them now just as vibrantly as he feels Hannibal bare in bed beside him, against him. When he opens his eyes the vision separates, but Hannibal’s expression is the same in both: soft and open, unrepentant but wanting, _wanting_ , the same way that Will wants him. _Wanted_ him, he forces himself to amend, because he can’t still want him now, but even in his mind it feels trivial and wrong to think so, to think he’s ever had so much as a _chance_ to choose.

Will swallows so hard it hurts. The pain in his heart has fully eclipsed that of his physical pain, which is still not insignificant. No matter how desperately he tries to keep it off his face it must show, because Hannibal pushes away from the counter to take a step forward, and then another, the same way one would approach a dangerous but wounded wild animal. It takes more willpower than he knew he was even capable of to stand his ground as the nightmare of a man comes closer, and even though he’s only just taller than Will he _looms,_ not stopping until he’s close enough to touch, close enough that Will is forced to tilt his chin up to hold his eyes, close enough that Will’s lizard brain is _screaming_ of the danger he’s in.

“You must know I had to protect myself, Will,” Hannibal whispers, looking down at Will, his eyes dark, his mouth soft. “I have done so, for a very, very long time. But I have not, and will not lie to you.”

Will studies his expression, searches hard for any proof on his face that he’s lying, even now, and finds none. His anger at Hannibal’s betrayal, at what he has done, is still there; but Will’s need for answers is stronger. He _has_ to know.

“You may not have lied to me outright, but you’ve been far from honest,” he says, lifting his chin more to capture and hold Hannibal’s eyes. How can it have only been weeks since he walked into this man’s office, unable to raise his gaze further than the tie knotted at his throat?

“Haven’t I?” Hannibal asks, matching Will’s quiet tone. His bloody gaze roams over Will’s face, his expression surprisingly earnest as he whispers, “I have been far more honest with you than I ever have been with anyone else, ever _meant_ to be.”

Will absorbs this, and the truth of it. It’s not lost on him that he has operated in much the same way, hiding himself from everyone around him, but compelled to spill his most closely guarded secrets to the man before him. He had thought it was only him, one-sided, but now he sees the truth: Hannibal standing before him now, every bit as exposed as Will is, and he feels something dark and terrible twining around them, drawing them closer together.

“Be honest with me, now,” Will says, softly, and though he manages to keep his tone even, he’s begging, he _knows_ he is.

There is no hesitation before Hannibal nods, once, a slow dip of his chin, and that terrible thing snaps tight and bares its name: _hope._

“You killed that man in the woods,” Will whispers, eyes wide as they hold Hannibal’s gaze unerringly, searching back and forth between those twin pools of old blood.

Hannibal’s expression doesn’t change in the least as he answers honestly, “Yes. I killed him for you, so you would see me.” He tilts his chin up when Will starts to speak, reminding him needlessly, “And you sat here, in my kitchen, and called it art.”

He did. He does _still_ , no matter how much he doesn’t want to. Will swallows and asks, “How many others?”

“Countless others,” comes the calm reply, “Over countless centuries, Will. I have watched civilizations rise and fall, dynasties begin and end.” Hannibal is in his space, staring down at him with unfathomably dark, unblinking eyes, and Will can’t look away, breathless at the growing knowledge of the depths of this creature he’s become so intrinsically intertwined with. “I have watched legions of human beings take their last breaths, either by my own hand or by others just like them; watched as Death paid his visit upon them,” Hannibal murmurs, close enough now that Will can see himself reflected in his pupils as he whispers, a benediction, “How many times, sweet boy, do you think I felt the need to intervene?”

Will is reaching out before he really means to, operating solely on some sort of instinct he’s never felt before; _hadn’t_ felt, until he was in the clutches of the vampire that nearly took his life. He sees the same fear flash through Hannibal’s eyes as his fingers brush his cheek that he saw when Hannibal found him there in the stairwell, so deep in the other creature’s mind that his beginning and end and the vampire’s was lost to him completely, until the vampire’s will was bent to Will’s entirely.

It’s the fear of his power, that Will has seen in everyone that has ever known what he could do—stretching as far back as his father, through time to Jack Crawford and his team. That fear was absent completely from Hannibal until that night, and what could possibly make a predator such as he so suddenly afraid?

With the sudden clarity of dawn breaking over the horizon, he understands _why_.

As lethal as vampires may be in their own right, it’s nothing compared to the creature that can _contro_ _l them_.

Will gasps as this piece of the puzzle falls into place—he doesn’t _want_ _this—_ and tries to withdraw his touch. The apprehension doesn’t leave Hannibal’s eyes, but he moves faster than should be possible to snatch Will’s hand out of the air and press it back to his cheek. His hand is larger and broader than Will’s, and covers his completely. Hannibal eyes flutter closed as he presses his cool cheek into Will’s touch, a purely animal nuzzle, and when they open again the fear is gone, and he nods his head just once.

Will’s power isn’t hiding from him tonight. It’s right there, buzzing in his fingertips, ready and willing and eager, so eager, and without any of the effort it usually requires with the well and truly dead, he slips _in_ _._

And he is _inundated._

He feels power, different from his own, but endless and terrifying. He feels the years spiraling forward and backwards, unfathomably agelong and sempiternal. He feels a tease of the beginning—abysmal hunger, intolerable cold, blood splashing in a wide arc against deep, white snow in a forest of ancient trees that stretches as far as he can see around him—and the stretch of an eternity thereafter. Lives blipping into and out of existence in what felt like a blink of an eye as time trudged on. Millions of lives ending around him, meaningless as the endless nights that spread before him and after him with nothing but his own company, hiding who he was to everyone but himself until...until _him_.

He can see himself there, in Hannibal’s mind; crashing into his militantly structured and organized life in a flurry of plaid and tangled curls and neuroses, turning everything upside down without meaning to. He is a supernova in total darkness, and every bit as radiant, and Hannibal has been utterly lost since the moment he laid eyes on him, and he’d do anything to keep him, _anything_ _,_ to his own detriment, to the world’s, it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t _care_ _._

Abruptly, they both break apart, gasping for breath that Will now knows only one of them truly needs. They stare each other down over the distance they’ve put between themselves, Will trembling as his power recedes and this new-found knowledge tries to find a place to fit alongside it.

Hannibal, always so buttoned up and put together, looks destroyed: chest heaving, eyes black as pitch, sharp white fangs gleaming in the dim light as his full lips part with each ragged breath.

“Why?” Will asks, when he gathers breath enough for words, his voice brittle and small, “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

Hannibal bares his fangs in a vicious snarl, looking every bit the monster Will now knows him to be, and he’s the most beautiful thing Will has ever seen, and Will wants him, he _wants_ him, despite it all, _because_ of it all. “You _know_ why,” Hannibal hisses through his sharp teeth, his voice a wreck.

“You’re one of them,” Will responds weakly, shivering from the exertion of his power and from fear and from the pain, pain in his body, pain in his heart.

“I think you know I’m not,” Hannibal answers, and Will knows.

He _knows_.

With the last of his strength, he flings himself across the space between them. Hannibal catches him easily, wrenches their bodies together as Will fists a hand in his hair and crushes their lips together, finally, _finally_. He sobs into it with something akin to relief, their blood—because it’s _theirs_ now, mingling in his veins—singing at the contact, and Hannibal makes a despairing sound deep in his throat in response as their mouths move together with too much force born of too much want, too much need, pent up for far too long.

Will licks hungrily into his mouth, and Hannibal makes a helpless, wounded noise when he rasps his tongue against one razor-sharp fang. Just the threat of it is enough to shock Will, but when he tries to pull back Hannibal’s grip on him tightens, and he turns them both to slam Will’s back against the cold steel of the refrigerator door and presses his body against the smaller man from knee to chest. He pulls back fractionally, retracting his fangs with a soft _snick_ of a sound, and then he’s kissing Will again.

Will is lost.

He’s drunk on the taste of him, he’s sure, since he tastes much as his blood tasted that night when he fed him to save his life. He tastes like life itself, like death, like something Will needs if he is to continue breathing for another moment. Hannibal’s tongue in his mouth, his hands on his face feel like a tectonic shift in the earth, like the magnetic pull that keeps the planets aligned. He wants him, _loves_ him with a fierceness that terrifies him to his core.

Hannibal shifts and surges up against him, and Will cries out, this time less from the sharp stab of need he feels but instead from the very real pain that tears through him.

Hannibal breaks away from him immediately, and Will aches to his very bones with the loss. The overhead lights from the kitchen shine down on him from above as Hannibal steps back, hands fisted at his sides in an effort not to touch, and Will breathes raggedly and looks at him, really looks at him, and _sees_ _._ The carefully cultivated mask he wears to face the world has melted away completely, and Will wonders how he ever thought this man was a man at all. With his face half-cast in shadow, filling the hollows of his eyes and the spaces beneath his cheekbones, pale skin smooth over a bone structure that just doesn’t quite belong in the modern world, strangely red irises eclipsed completely by pitch black pupil...he looks otherworldly, ethereal, _deadly._

Even with his chest heaving and his covetousness etched deep in his features, he is so gorgeous, and Will loves him so fiercely and wants him so ferociously he can’t think of anything else, not his anger, not his pain, not even how to breathe.

Hannibal seems no less far gone, but his eyes have lowered to Will’s stomach, and whatever he sees there makes him lick his lips and his nostrils flare enough to make Will look down, too. Reality crashes readily back around him when he sees the object of Hannibal’s sudden fascination: fresh blood, blooming across the dingy off-whiteness of his t-shirt like roses opening up to the sun.

Hannibal looked like a starved man before, but when Will looks up again, the other man looks positively _ravenous_.

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” Will laments, hurting and irritated and wondering just how this is his life. “ _Seriously_?”

Hannibal seems to shake himself, and even goes so far as to lower his head in contrition. “Forgive me, Will,” he says, and his voice is deeper and husky, his accent heavier as if his tongue is thick in his mouth, “You test the limits of my not insignificant self-control. The scent of your—”

“ _That’s_ what you ask for forgiveness for?” Will interrupts, all at once feeling light-headed and exhausted and weak in the knees. And ridiculous and angry at himself, considering he came to Hannibal’s house with half a mind to try to kill him somehow, and instead ended up with his tongue halfway down his throat. Despite himself, just the thought of what just happened is enough to cause another sharp throb of arousal to course through him, which is immediately echoed by another sharp throb of pain from his ruined belly.

Hannibal gives him a wide berth when Will moves across the kitchen with determination, practically stomping his bare feet as he goes like a toddler mid-tantrum, and drops into the leather armchair situated in the corner of the kitchen unceremoniously just as his legs no longer refuse to hold him. He groans as he shifts, curling up protectively around himself with his hands pressed over his wound to staunch the pain that blooms behind his eyes, and the sound seems to be enough to fully shake Hannibal out of his stupor.

Will watches through half-shuttered lids as Hannibal moves to a cabinet on the opposite side of the kitchen, then returns a moment later with a familiar-looking leather bag. He raises a brow as Hannibal comes closer, then raises them both even higher when he neatly drops to his knees at Will’s feet.

“What are you doing?” Will whispers warily as Hannibal reaches out, fingers lingering at the hem of his t-shirt.

“You need medical attention,” Hannibal replies, looking up at him. He’s waiting for permission, Will realizes, which is...surprising, considering.

Still, Will hesitates. “Are you really even a doctor?” he asks sullenly.

Hannibal’s lips twitch, and he lowers his hovering hand to rest against Will’s knee. “All of my most recent degrees are hanging in my office,” he answers, his voice careful and measured, even as he adds, “I doubt your keen eyes missed them.”

“My _keen eyes_ ,” Will replies, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “Missed a _lot_ of things, as it turns out.” Hannibal doesn’t seem to have a response for that—a rarity, to be sure—and merely inclines his head. He’s breathing deeply through his nose, Will realizes, still scenting him.

Will sighs, thinking that whatever he might do to him will certainly pale in comparison to what has already been done. Then he remembers what he saw in those few seconds inside Hannibal’s head, and a shiver runs through him with the bone-deep understanding those moments left him with.

Hannibal isn’t going to hurt him. Slowly, he nods his head, just once.

Ever so gently, Hannibal’s hands push his shirt up over his stomach, and Will stares at the top of his head as he lowers his eyes to look at his own handiwork. The perfect little stitches aren’t so perfect anymore; at least three that he can see have pulled free, opening the wound just enough that a few trickles of fresh blood has been allowed to escape through. Other than that, though, the wound is much more healed than it should be, since the time that has passed since the vampire in the stairwell opened him up can still be counted in hours instead of days.

Silently, Hannibal reaches into the depths of his medical bag, and then pulls out a tiny, gleaming pair of stainless steel scissors. With another quick look up at Will for permission, which he acquiesces, Hannibal goes to work on the stitches, snipping them and then pulling them free until there is a little pile of black knots on the arm of the chair beside him and more fresh blood welling up in the little pinprick marks the thread has left behind in Will’s flesh. Will swallows thickly, staring not at the angry red scar the vampire that attacked him left behind, but instead at the tiny, indelible marks Hannibal left on him as he was putting him back together.

Even as he watches, they begin to close and heal over. Will’s breath catches in his throat.

“How...” Will whispers, his voice strained and becoming even more so as Hannibal finishes removing the last of the stitches and then rubs a thumb, careful, over the ridges of the scars left behind. Because that’s all it is now, mostly: jagged scars, still red and angry, especially in the few open places where the stitches ripped through a few minutes before, when he was in Hannibal’s arms and Hannibal was in his. “I was dying,” he says softly, meeting Hannibal’s eyes when he looks up from his work to hold his gaze. Even just at the reminder of that night, Will can see Hannibal is effected. “I _know_ I was. How did you...”

He trails off, not able to find the words to describe what has happened, and knowing they’re not truly needed. Hannibal doesn’t answer right away. Instead he parts his lips, and Will watches, breathless, as his fangs snap down with that same soft sound as before. Hannibal raises his hand and pricks his thumb on one razor-sharp tip, both of them watching as a drop of blood wells up on the surface of his skin, so dark it almost looks black. “Our blood heals,” he murmurs, finally, and lowers his hand. Ever so gently, he smears his blood over the scar. Will makes a soft sound as he rubs it into the open wounds, and he _feels_ his flesh knitting back together, and desperately wants to look, but he can’t take his eyes off Hannibal for anything in the world as he whispers, “I was able to stabilize you enough for me to perform surgery—”

“Do you do that a lot?” Will interrupts to ask, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice any more than he is able to keep himself from asking what he realizes he desperately needs to know, “Feed people your blood?”

Maybe it’s the fact that Will has had his blood now, that makes Hannibal easier to read, or maybe things changed long before that night, Will isn’t sure. But at his question, Hannibal draws up and looks affronted. Or maybe nothing changes at all, but Will can see it all the same. “Never,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, “I have _never_.”

Will swallows so thickly his throat clicks, and reaches down to touch Hannibal’s hand, still lingering over his stomach. “Okay,” he whispers, and presses with a whisper-light touch until the coolness of Hannibal’s palm spreads across his belly, covering the mess of healing scars from end to end. Someone—maybe him, maybe Hannibal, maybe both of them as one—releases a shaking breath, but it’s Will that murmurs again in acceptance of the weight of what Hannibal has shared—his words, his _life—_ as he reaches out with his free hand, fingers ghosting across the sharp ridge of Hannibal’s cheekbone, “Okay.”

Hannibal’s eyes fall closed, and he turns his head, nestling his way into Will’s open palm. They stay like that for a moment, Will’s hand to Hannibal’s cheek and Hannibal’s hand over the soft, marred skin of Will’s belly, before Hannibal opens his eyes and looks up at him with so much longing it steals his breath away.

His fingers move, caressing Will’s scar, and Will holds his breath as Hannibal’s hand drifts away and he lowers his head. Will’s fingers slide to the nape of Hannibal’s neck, resting there, mind whirring with all he has learned until it stutters to a stop and blanks out completely when Hannibal brushes his lips against his skin.

His lips are cool, but not unpleasantly so as they move along the length of the scar, which has already turned from hideously red and raised to pearly pink under his ministrations, a fact that is too mind-boggling for Will to even begin to process. His hair is silky—far softer than Will ever allowed himself to imagine—as his fingers tighten enough to hold but not to direct, his eyes falling closed with a quiet sound at the feeling of those impossibly soft lips against his skin. And then, Will feels the gentle, wet rasp of his tongue, and a quiet, surprised moan is shaken free from him at the sensation as Hannibal licks away the scant drops of Will’s blood and his own.

He swears he can feel it, even just a drop of his power mingling with the magic that animates Hannibal, and his breath goes ragged, his fingers tightening in Hannibal’s hair to a point that must be painful. It’s too much, it’s too _much_ , this feeling that fills the core of his body and radiates outwards to his extremities, to his fingers and his toes and back again. His eyes fly open, looking down just in time to see Hannibal’s own eyes drift closed as he savors the flavor of them together, and then those shining, blood-black eyes are open again and on him, dark and fathomless as the deepest depths of any ocean, and Will hears himself rasp out in a voice that sounds nothing like his own to his own ears, “ _Hannibal.”_

Hannibal nods, just a bare twitch of his chin. He feels it too.

This time, Will has no idea who reaches for who first, and he doesn’t care; only knows that Hannibal has got his fingers into the waistband of his pajama pants and jerked them down enough to expose him. He’s painfully hard, again; lying flushed and strained against his belly after his cock is freed, leaking already onto his scarred flesh.

Will’s fingers are still knotted in his hair, and Hannibal goes when Will pulls him closer, pausing long enough bury his face in the crease of Will’s thigh. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and moans at the scent of him, and the sensation is so intimate and confusing that Will trembles.

Then, Hannibal pulls back and drags the flat of his tongue up Will’s length, agonizingly slow, from root to tip.

Will’s breath leaves him as if punched out of his chest. Although his first instinct is to hide, to look away, he can’t do anything but stare with wide eyes and blown black pupils as Hannibal looks up at him, meeting his gaze for a moment that drags on before he opens his mouth, dips his head, and swallows him whole.

Will’s shout is exultant as his hips flex up automatically, burying himself deeper in Hannibal’s mouth until he feels the head of his cock bumping against the back of his throat. The next sound he makes is pure worship as Hannibal only swallows to allow him deeper, moving his head up and back down again, his cool tongue laving a searing path as he goes. There are, as it turns out, benefits to being blown by someone that has no need to breathe, since Hannibal doesn’t bother coming up for air before going back for more.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will says again, and the other man’s only reply is a broken moan that reverberates down the length of him, “ _Fuck—_ your _mouth_ , I love—oh my _god_.”

Hannibal somehow manages to look smug with those lips of his wrapped tight around the girth of Will’s cock, and as he looks up at Will through his lashes, bloodstained eyes gleaming, Will feels himself begin to shake apart. He grasps the buttery-soft leather of the chair’s arm with his free hand for leverage and arches _up_ , tries and fails to make a sound of warning, but Hannibal already knows. He takes Will in so deep he feels Hannibal’s throat constrict around the head as he swallows, cheeks hollowing and humming as Will pitifully moans out a single plaintive _fuck_ _,_ mournful and ruined.

He comes with a wounded sound, and never breaking eye contact, Hannibal pulls off just enough that Will’s release spills across his tongue instead of down his throat. Will, panting and trembling, watches as Hannibal’s eyes finally flutter closed, clearly savoring for a moment before he swallows.

Will, gasping, is struck suddenly with the thought that he has seen that look before, although he’s never seen the man look so much like he’s having a religious experience (and he should know, since he’s pretty sure he’s just had one himself). He’s seen a lesser version of it when Hannibal sips from a glass of wine that costs more than everything Will has ever owned combined, or when he’s enjoying an aria particularly. But the closest thing he’s ever seen to it, he realizes abruptly, is when Hannibal is savoring the flavor of one of his perfectly structured bites of food.

His breath stutters when he remembers what—or, more accurately _who—_ he was consuming on those occasions. Remembers why he came here in the first place— _answers_ , _Will, not_ this—and all the adrenaline Hannibal just so carefully and thoroughly brought to the surface along with the lingering after-effects of his power still rippling below his skin comes abruptly to a head.

 _This_ is who he has fallen in love with—because there’s no use in even trying to deny it anymore, even knowing what Hannibal is.

 _This_ is who he’s let in.

He panics.

There’s barely room for him to stand with Hannibal still knelt between his feet, but he manages, tripping over himself as he struggles to pull up his pajama pants as he stumbles away. “Will—” Hannibal is saying, but Will barely hears him, wrapping an arm around his middle to press against his still aching stomach as he makes a break for the front door as fast as he is able, not pausing even when Hannibal’s deep voice calls, “ _Will!”_

The front door looms into Will’s view, and he lunges for it. His hand wraps around the handle and he turns it, and the cool night air pours in to greet him, and he doesn’t know where he’s going or how he’ll get there but he knows, he _knows_ , he has to get out of there, that things have gone so incredibly sideways, his plans have gone so unbelievably awry, there will be no righting them.

When he goes to throw himself through the doorway, Hannibal is suddenly there, heralded only by a rush of cool wind around him. Will hardly even had time to blink. “How—” Will asks, breathless, simultaneously terrified and awed by how fast the vampire has moved, and cries out in shock when the door is slammed and he’s pressed against it. He shakes his head hard as Hannibal’s body presses against his in a long, cool line, and hates the wretched sound of his own voice as he begs, “Hannibal, _please_ let me go.”

The other man’s face is schooled back to its usual placid mask of indifference, but his eyes are still dark and wild, and his normally neat hair is askew from Will’s seeking fingers, spilling across his brow. There’s a moment that hangs in precarious balance, where Will knows they both are considering who would come out on top if one of them decided to use force to get their way.

Will wonders if Hannibal is as terrified as he is to know that it might very well be _him_.

“Why did you come here, Will?” Hannibal asks, finally, and his voice is a still a wreck from before, which threatens to set fire to Will’s veins all over again when he thinks of _why_. Will is the only one of the two of them breathing heavily, though, each ragged breath pressing his chest closer against Hannibal’s, as he merely stares down at him with preternatural stillness. How did he never notice before? _How_? “You entertained yourself with the thought of ending me,” Hannibal murmurs, not seeming terribly put out at the thought, “But that’s not why you came.”

Hannibal’s eyes travel back in the direction of the kitchen before he licks his lips, and Will wonders if what just happened feels as surreal to Hannibal as it does to him, if he is chasing the taste of Will on his lips. The thought makes Will’s heart ache sharply enough that he hysterically thinks he might be about to to cry. Not trusting his voice, Will presses his lips together tight and shakes his head, a jerk from one side to another.

Hannibal nods just as minutely. “You came for answers,” he whispers, and Will’s not sure why he’s even surprised anymore when this man seems reads his mind. “I have them, should you want them,” he adds softly, his voice earnest enough that it momentarily stills the desperate need to flee clawing at Will’s insides.

With that, Hannibal lets him go and turns away, leaving Will sagging against the door in his wake. He doesn’t look back as he heads back towards the kitchen, leaving Will to make his choice.

Will looks between his retreating back and the door, between the monster and his escape, and wonders if this isn’t what madness feels like. In the end, though, the choice is much easier than it probably should be.

He chooses to follow his monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beautiful friend [beatricenius](https://twitter.com/beatricenius) has gifted us with her amazing talent! take a look at the full-size original and give her some love [here](https://twitter.com/beatricenius/status/1154369339707068416)! look at those beautiful spooky boys ♡♡♡


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is still watching him so intently it feels as though he’s trying to peel his skin back just enough to get a good look at whatever he believes must be lurking inside. He wets his lower lip with his tongue, and Will knows that he wants to kiss him again. He knows this because he, Will, wants to kiss Hannibal again too. The want of it claws at the insides of his ribs, like something despairing for escape. Will has never experienced anything even close to it, and if the starved look on Hannibal’s face is anything to go by, he can only assume for him it’s more of the same.
> 
> This isn’t just madness, he thinks, with sudden, alarming comprehension. This is purgatory. Inescapable and infinite, everlasting and boundless.
> 
> What the fuck is he going to do?
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal provides Will with answers, which naturally only leads to more questions.

It takes a moment for Will to manage to force himself into movement.

He stays slumped with his back pressed against the front door, watching Hannibal go and feeling the distance between them growing in a visceral way he couldn’t possibly explain if he had to. His eyes catch on the disarray of Hannibal’s normally irritatingly perfect hair just before he disappears once more into the shadows of the kitchen, holding onto the knowledge that it was his fingers that caused it with all the possessiveness of a dragon with a piece of gold, even if he can’t quite convince himself that what just happened in the kitchen _actually_ happened.

He wets his lips and finds more proof there—because oh _god,_ he can still taste Hannibal there; wine and death and sweetness, as addicting as it is terrifying.

It’s a mixture of curiosity and the thread he swears he can feel between them growing more and more taunt with distance, until it feels like it may snap, that finally gets him to push away from the door. There’s a brief moment where he’s not sure his legs will hold him—he tries to reason that it’s his injury and not the after-effects of the orgasm that was just expertly wrung out of him—but they do, and without questioning the sanity of his decision again, he goes.

He stays several paces behind Hannibal, following through the shadows as he makes his way through his kitchen. His stomach turns in some viscous mixture of fear and lust when he passes the chair he just vacated and quickly looks away, not feeling any better when his eyes land on the wide spread of Hannibal’s shoulder as he disappears from view again. Will forces himself into movement, following him through to what looks like a utility room—mostly filled with cleaning supplies, and he just barely keeps his more than slightly hysterical laugh from escaping at the thought of the vampire _cleaning—_ and then through a heavy door with an even heavier lock, outfitted with a programmable number pad. Will lingers behind him, hands pressed against his still aching belly and shuffling his feet awkwardly as Hannibal enters a code, and the door swings wide, thick and heavy and otherwise impenetrable.

Hannibal steps through and heads down a sharply inclined staircase, without checking to see if Will follows, although he’s fairly sure to do so would be completely unnecessary. Hannibal no longer has any need to hide what he is, supernatural instincts included.

Will isn’t sure he should be trusting his own instincts anymore, considering where they’ve got him so far, but they are certainly screaming the roof down as he watches Hannibal disappear from view. He steps through the doorway, and his heart leaps into his throat when he feels the cold basement air rush around him, fluttering the hair across his brow. Who walks willingly into a vampire’s _lair_ , for fuck’s sake?

Will sighs, and then begins to descend the stairs.

There’s no light, but then again Will supposes Hannibal doesn’t need any. He reaches out blindly to feel for a banister when the little bit of light from upstairs isn’t enough to illuminate his path, and finds nothing but a stark, cold concrete wall. He spreads out his fingers against it, feeling his way down, and comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

He waits, and reflects on how easily Hannibal could overtake him if he chose to at the moment, but nonetheless barely flinches when he feels the other man brush up against him in the darkness to reach past him and flip a switch.

The basement beneath Hannibal’s house is long and deep, and the lights come on in flickering increments, first illuminating the room they stand in, then one further down, and one further still. He doesn’t know if his senses have heightened from his few moments in the dark, or if it is a side effect of Hannibal’s blood, but he could swear he smells the lingering scent of blood and death in the walls. “Do you sleep down here?” he hears himself whisper, even though he didn’t really mean to ask the question out loud. It’s the first words he’s uttered since Hannibal had him pinned against the door upstairs, and the sound of his own voice startles him.

Hannibal chuckles lowly at his side. “I sleep in a bed, Will, in my bedroom,” he replies, and his voice is still raspy. Will’s mind is happy enough to supply that the reason for this is from having his cock jammed down his throat minutes ago. Will swallows hard, and looks up at him, momentarily lost. Hannibal, for all his intuition, must mistake Will’s expression, because his lips quirk as he asks, “Did you imagine I slept hanging upside down from the rafters like a bat?”

Will snorts, and hates the warmness that burns in his chest, still struggling to reconcile this honestly funny, sweet man with everything he now knows him to be. “Well, I am now,” he replies, because that seems safer than allowing any discussions of Hannibal’s bed, or god forbid imagining him _in_ it.

Hannibal’s eyes are glittering with that fondness that Will has a hell of a time facing head on, but before he gets a chance to look away, he feels a hand pressing against the small of his back. “Come,” Hannibal says, and Will is obediently spurred into motion by the terrifying presence of that hand separated only by an impossibly thin layer of cotton. He quickly learns to be glad for it, though, as his steps falter hard when they continue on to the next room.

This one is not at fucking _all_ innocuous.

Will’s gasp is lost to the sound of the freezers in one corner of the room humming away, his eyes wide as he takes in equipment that looks to him to be something better suited for a butcher shop. He swallows hard as he sees the stainless steel table almost identical to those in the FBI morgue, and feels a little lightheaded at the sight of a huge table saw and plenty of other tools he isn’t ready to process the uses of.

 _He_ may not be ready to process it, but his imagination has never been entirely under his control. He remembers the man in the woods suddenly, remembers the parts of him that were missing. Remembers the way they were lovingly prepared and fed to him without his knowledge. He knows that man wasn’t the only one, either, and the proof is right here before him in Hannibal’s own version of a slaughterhouse.

He tries to summon the anger that came to him so easily when he woke in his own apartment, and instead finds his mind wandering back to the man in the woods and what he saw, _felt_ , in his final moments of life. He wonders if that was his peek at Hannibal’s MO, and feels another wave of bitter sickness wash over him.

(He tells himself that it’s outrage on the victim’s behalf, on his own behalf for unwittingly becoming a part of it. He decidedly does not broach with himself that what he truly feels is terribly closely adjacent to jealousy.)

“Why are you showing me this?” Will asks, his voice barely above a squeak.

“This is incidental,” Hannibal replies, allowing Will a moment to stop and nervously look his fill, before adding softly, “And I made a promise.”

 _Be honest with me, now_.

Will nods shakily. He asked for it, after all. “If this is incidental,” he says carefully, curling his bare toes against the cold concrete beneath them, “What could the primary purpose of this little field trip possibly be?” He’s still at least half-sure that Hannibal has brought him downstairs to kill him, not convinced of the new-found aspects of his powers enough to believe he could completely overtake the vampire if he tried. Add to that being on Hannibal’s home turf, and quite possibly in his killing grounds as well, Will’s not sure he would really stand a chance.

But Hannibal smiles his placid, adoring smile at him as if he knows exactly what he’s thinking. “I have something for you,” he murmurs, his voice still rough but impossibly gentle. Will must not look convinced—because he’s _not_ fucking convinced, not even a little bit—because Hannibal steps closer. His fingers, cool as the temperature of the air around them below ground as they are, brush down Will’s arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Do you still desire answers?” he asks softly, the word _desire_ rolling off his tongue in such a way that Will barely stops himself from shivering.

Will manages to nod, and tears his eyes away from Hannibal’s only when the other man lifts a hand, gesturing into the next and last room in his labyrinth.

Will casts a dubious glance up at him, but still follows when he makes his way towards the next door, his steps still more like shuffles than strides. This one is heavier and better armed than the first, with a thick wide crossbar situated across it. Will watches in puzzled silence as Hannibal pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, folds it double over itself, and then lays it carefully across the metal crossbar. He lays a hand over the linen, gripping over it to wrench the bar upwards.

Confused, and feeling this situation to be more than a little surreal, Will presses a hand to his aching abdomen and watches as Hannibal covers his index finger with the cloth, then wordlessly enters yet another code in yet another lock. He steps back clear of the thing, and Will twitches in subdued alarm as the sound of whirring mechanical mechanisms briefly drowns out the sound of his own nervous heart beating in his ears. In the basement, silent but for the sound of his own breaths, the clanking of bolts automatronically being thrown back is deafening. He jumps when the door finally begins to open, although the quiet _woosh_ of hydraulics controlling it is almost anticlimactic after all the noise.

Over it, Will hears hissing, that quickly turns to earsplitting growls the moment Hannibal enters the room.

“Let me fucking _go_!” a voice roars, and Will freezes, finding it just familiar enough that it niggles at the edges of his memory, “You can’t keep me here! He’s going to find out where I am, and he’s—”

Will steps into the room, and the vampire that nearly took his life him falls abruptly silent, matte black eyes devoid of light growing impossibly wide. There are thick, heavy silver chains wound around his neck and bare torso, and everywhere they touch his skin is burning, crackling and popping and melting like plastic thrown into a fire, and Will’s nose wrinkles automatically at the heinous smell of burning flesh. Even still, the creature had been straining against his bonds at the sight of Hannibal, snarling and baring every one of mouthful of skinny shark teeth. But at the sight of Will edging into the room behind him, he had pressed himself back against the wall, desperately trying to flee with nowhere to go.

Hannibal watches all of this with mild amusement, but there is pride there that Will would have to be blind to miss. “Will, may I introduce Matthew. And Matthew, you already know my dear friend Will,” he says, looking between the two of them, as if they are merely guests at a dinner party. The vampire— _Matthew_ , for fuck’s entire sake, the thing has a _name—_ visibly gulps as Will takes a step closer, his eyes narrowed.

“What the _fuck_ is he doing here?” Will demands, his hands twitching as he forces himself not to cover his stomach protectively, the memory of claws belonging to the vampire cowering away from him on the concrete basement floor digging deep into his soft underbelly still entirely too fresh.

If he wasn’t mad as _fuck_ , he would probably be a little bit queasy.

As it is, just the sight of the beast that damn near took his life makes Will’s power move restlessly beneath his skin, itching for an outlet. The crackle of energy he feels is clearly palpable to the two supernatural creatures he shares a room with. Will just catches the tail-end of Hannibal’s shiver, clearly delighted by the potential of righteous violence, if the dark fathoms of hunger in his eyes are anything to go by.

Matthew, on the other hand, looks even more terrified; pulling fruitlessly at his chains and whining pitifully. For the first time, Will notices he’s still wearing the same clothes he was wearing when he attacked him; all black, his ripped jeans pushed up so that the chains around his ankles can melt into his bare skin. He had seemed larger than life that night, but now he looks like the teenage kid he must have been whenever he was turned into the monster he has become. Will could almost pity him, if he couldn’t still feel the phantom claws rearranging his insides, and see the _proof_ of that night in his own blood still under the vampire’s nails and streaking his hands.

Will looks back to Hannibal, his fingers flexing at his sides to try to keep himself in check. Hannibal merely nods in the direction of Matthew cowering on the floor, and says simply, “You have questions. Ask them.”

He supposes Hannibal means for Will to ask questions to his captive, but his first one is for him. “What is he doing here?” he asks again, jerking his thumb in the general direction of Matthew, his eyes too trained on Hannibal to notice how even such a small movement causes the bloodthirsty monster on the floor to twitch away violently.

“I hunted him down,” Hannibal replies, voice calm, as if this is a completely normal thing to do.

Will splutters a little, his mind racing. “How?” is his first question, trying to piece together how the man possibly found the time in those hours he lost, between saving his life and stitching him back together. He realizes pretty quickly that this is inconsequential, since Hannibal obviously has some pretty impressive time-management skills, considering some of his _hobbies_. “Why?” he asks instead, since this seems more pertinent at the moment.

“For you,” Hannibal answers, somehow making those two words sound like a devotional, a vehement promise.

Will doesn’t know what to do with it at the moment.

Luckily for him, though, Matthew chooses that moment to provide a distraction. His lips pull back over his mouthful of sharp teeth, and he spits out venomously, disgust coloring every word, “You _reek_ of him.”

Will isn’t sure if the creature is referring to him being full of Hannibal’s blood, or if it’s their encounter in the kitchen that he reeks of. He finds yet another thing he’s nowhere near ready to unpack when he feels his hackles rise instinctively at the insinuation that he _shouldn’t_ _._ Hannibal’s lips twitch beside him, and it does not escape the notice of the bound creature before him. He smiles, and it’s a terrible, unnatural thing, as he looks between the two of them. “How does it feel?” he asks Will, his voice as light as one can manage when it’s coming through a hideous snarl of sharp teeth and a mouth split too wide to be natural, “To be the one with someone in _your_ head, now?”

“How did it feel when I was in _yours_?” Will shoots back, even though it’s all he can do not to turn his head and glare daggers at Hannibal—because what the _fuck_ is this thing talking about? Some untold side effect of Hannibal’s blood, he’s sure; something that he saw fit not to mention when he offered himself to save Will’s life. He’s sure if he stopped to ask, Hannibal would merely look back at him with that serene expression and give some explanation that would soothe Will’s anger, and he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

Whatever it is, it’s already done, and there are more pressing matters at hand.

Matthew snarls as Will steps closer, looking down his nose at him. Hannibal moves closer too, standing at Will’s shoulder and just behind, a silent but obtrusive presence. Observing, always observing, but now Will knows enough not to miss the threat that simmers beneath his skin. “Who sent you?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft as he repeats the question he had asked the night before as his life slipped between his fingers, bleeding out around his feet. He remembers the creature’s crooned answer that night, _my maker, my king_ , as reverent and pious as a worshiper of some god. Will only just suppresses a shiver, and asks more forcefully, “Who is your maker?”

Even at the mention of his mysterious sire, Matthew’s eyes flutter closed and a smile curves his lips—disconcerting, considering his lips can’t quite close over his overflowing mouthful of sharp teeth. “He’s been searching for you,” he says dreamily, and when his black eyes open, there is contempt shining in their depths for Will. “Ever since that night in New Orleans,” he spits out, narrowing his eyes as Will freezes, eyes widening before he can stop himself from reacting, “He’s done little else but talk about _you_.”

Will can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him now, as surely as he could if Hannibal had reached out and touched him. He doesn’t turn to look at the vampire standing stoic at his side, waiting patiently for Will to get his answers. Will can still feel the after-effects of that sweltering hot night like an oily residue on his skin, and when he swallows thickly, he grimaces at the phantom taste of rotting flesh and rancid blood on his tongue.

He opens his mouth to gasp for air, and is almost surprised to find it to be the crisp, cold, stale air of Hannibal’s basement and not the thick and stinky, sticky air that hangs heavier than normal around the swamps. He finds himself turning to search out Hannibal’s eyes without meaning or _wanting_ to, his mind and his heart clearly not on the same page about the beacon of safety the man has become to him, even now with all he has learned.

Hannibal is...scrutinizing him, when their eyes meet. There is no other word for it, not really, and even though Will is fairly sure his face would seem to be nothing more than it’s normal, impassive blank to anybody else, he can feel the other man’s curiosity as if it was a physical caress.

It’s the first time Will recognizes that Hannibal might need some answers of his own.

Even still, just meeting Hannibal’s eyes brings him back to the present, grounding him in the now, just like it has since almost the first night they met. Because they’ve come too far now for Will to deny the connection he’s felt to the other man since the beginning, he supposes. Rather it be in Jack’s company, a mind reaching out in all directions desperate for answers, or in the company of the vampire sprawled on the floor stinking of burning flesh, his words throwing Will back into his past without so much as a flick of his chained wrist, Hannibal is there to bring him back. A calm, placid pool when everyone else is churning rapids. A shelter from the storm, when just outside it, a category five hurricane rages.

Hannibal is still watching him so intently it feels as though he’s trying to peel his skin back just enough to get a good look at whatever he believes must be lurking inside. He wets his lower lip with his tongue, and Will knows that he wants to kiss him again. He knows this because he, Will, wants to kiss Hannibal again too. The want of it claws at the insides of his ribs, like something despairing for escape. Will has never experienced anything even close to it, and if the starved look on Hannibal’s face is anything to go by, he can only assume for him it’s more of the same.

This isn’t just madness, he thinks, with sudden, alarming comprehension. This is _purgatory_. Inescapable and infinite, everlasting and boundless.

What the _fuck_ is he going to do?

“He told us about _you_ , too.”

Hannibal blinks at the same time Will does, and they both turn their heads in tandem to look at the captured vampire. Will had pretty much forgotten he was there in the last few seconds, lost in Hannibal’s eyes like some wilting flower in a romance novel. He’d feel worse about it if he thought for a second Hannibal was any better off.

Matthew is smiling eerily at Hannibal, now. His eyes, eclipsed with black to the point that nearly no white shows at all, glitter in the harsh overhead lighting, and his voice is strangely soft as he hisses so quietly Will can barely hear him, “Imagine what he will do when he finds out he’s _yours_?”

Will doesn’t have time to process the words, any more than to register them as a threat, before Hannibal—up to this point so still he could have been made of stone if Will didn’t know better—bursts into animation. A deafening vocalization, a snarl closer to a sound Will’s heard lions make on the Discovery Channel than anything a human is capable of, is torn out from deep within his chest and reverberates off the concrete walls of the room, and by the time Will has looked back at him his fangs have appeared, large and long and viciously sharp.

Will’s hand shoots out just as Hannibal begins to lunge towards Matthew, pressing against Hannibal’s chest, just over his heart. Will has never had cause to see Hannibal’s full strength in action, but he can imagine it’s a sight to behold. And yet, the vampire stops at Will’s touch, allowing himself to be reigned in and pushed back several steps.

Will looks up at him, at those fangs he felt against his tongue not even a half hour before. He swallows hard at the thought, at the _want_ , at the heady growing realization that he’s earned himself some sway with this monster.

Hannibal seems to come back to himself, although he still looks quietly furious, all barely-restrained violence, just as he did the night before when he happened upon Will knocking loudly against death’s door in the stairwell. He stares down at Will for a long moment, his eyes dark and frantic, just like they were when Will was dying. He seems to come to some sort of decision, however, and nods his head incrementally, taking a step back to give Will some space even though it seems to pain him to do so.

Will holds those wild eyes for a long moment, knowing instinctively that there is more to this than just the threat the captured vampire has issued, and knowing at once that he’s not the only one with pieces of his past being jerked out forcefully like so many teeth.

He forces himself to turn away and towards Matthew. The vampire, despite being on the floor with heavy chains wrapped across its chest, manages to look smug for shaking them both. That is, until the moment that he looks up in Will’s eyes. Will isn’t quite sure what he sees there, what makes him utter a distressed noise and press himself as much into the wall behind him as he is able, but he can imagine. He knows that he can feel his power burbling beneath his skin like molten lava beneath the earth’s crust, brought ever closer to the surface by the creature’s threat against him, against Hannibal.

Will is _livid,_ and he doesn’t much care that it shows.

“ _Who_ is your maker?” he asks again, sounding like a broken record and hating it. He decides then that he won’t be asking again, and when Matthew only bares his shark’s teeth at him in response, Will heaves a put-upon sigh. “Have it your way,” Will says, before he does exactly what he stopped Hannibal from doing a few minutes before.

He lunges for Matthew, dropping down to his knees just beside him, and even as the creature does his best to escape him Will reaches out and grips his face with his hands, forcing all that energy that crackles beneath his skin like electric currents out, and then _in_.

If Hannibal’s mind is a tranquil stream, easy to wade through, Matthews is a snarl of briars, cutting into him and pulling him in different directions. His mind is animal, and that animal is _starving_ , both for blood and for bloodshed. It’s next to impossible to see through anything but his baser desires, but Will pushes harder, _forward._

In the real world, he gasps out loud enough that Hannibal instinctively takes a step towards him, his nostrils flaring when Will’s fingernails dig into the pale flesh of Matthew’s face, adding the stench of his blood to the scents filling the small room. But inside Matthew’s mind, Will can _see_ now, wrapped so tightly around the vampire’s mind that he can feel himself starting to gain control over him, even if he doesn’t truly understand how he does it.

He sees the answer to his question in flashes that truly answer nothing. There’s a man, pinched-faced with wild blonde hair, his pallor whiter than death. He sees, and he _feels_ , the way Matthew does when he looks upon him. It’s not love, the mind he’s occupying isn’t capable of such complex emotion. It’s blind worship, though; and he would do anything his master asks of him, up to including giving his life, such as it is, at his command.

Will sees flashes of other faces, pale and young. He sees flashes of red; blood, black in the moonlight, faces covered and shark-toothed fangs dripping with it, feels that unending, unquenchable thirst, for blood and for carnage. He sees some of that carnage happening first hand, sees through Matthew and others just like him descending on helpless victims like a pack of rabid dogs.

Then sees _himself_. At a distance, looking tired and drawn with bags under his eyes, sees himself standing at the edge of a crime scene, Beverly Katz talking at him while his eyes dart around warily, and darting later into the depths of the BAU. Sees himself from across a familiar busy street, stopping for a moment at the door to his apartment to lift a package from the ground—food from Hannibal, he absently recognizes—inspecting it for a moment before he smiles, soft and full of wonder, and holds it against his chest like something precious as he disappears inside.

He sees himself through a large bay window, seated on a sprawling leather couch. Sees the looming shadow of man with broad shoulders and a trim waist, his shirt-sleeves rolled up his forearms, offering him a glass of amber liquid that flashes red-orange in the firelight, watches as the Will in the vampire’s disjointed memories looks up to meet the other man’s eyes.

Sees for himself, for a moment, just how he looks at Hannibal.

Feels an odd sense of vertigo as he both sees that moment from the outside looking in while remembering it as it was to _live_ it: that exact moment in time where Will’s world simultaneously listed sickeningly, while also slotting seamlessly into place.

The moment he truly began to realize he was in love.

It’s this breach of his privacy that scalds him, even though it’s bad enough that he’s been followed for god knows how long. It’s not the crime scenes, or the BAU, or even his own apartment...it’s _here_. He was followed _here_ , to _Hannibal_ , to where he has felt safer than he’s ever known it was remotely possible to feel.

The sudden knowledge that even now that hasn’t changed, even after he’s opened his eyes to the truth of what Hannibal is and what he’s done, what he _does_ , is what snaps him out of Matthew’s mind with a gasp of shock. He blinks his eyes open, and Matthew is staring at him from inches away, those matte black eyes wide and sharp, _too_ sharp, sharp as his rows and rows of teeth in the mouth that’s parting even now.

“Will,” Hannibal says behind him, warning, and Will realizes his mistake. He’s lost his connection in his anger, and the vampire has control of his mind again. The thought no sooner has time to cross his mind before Matthew bursts into motion.

It all happens in less than a heartbeat, far too fast for Will to keep up with. Before he has time to withdraw his hands from the vampire’s face, Matthew turns, sinking his jagged teeth deep into Will’s forearm. Will howls in surprise and pain and tries to lash out, but Matthew is like a dog with a bone, his teeth locking in Will’s flesh and _pulling_ , knocking Will off balance. Will falls into him, and he dislodges the heavy silver chains wrapped around him just enough for Matthew pull free of them, and he slings them at Hannibal who goes down immediately with an inhuman sound of pain as the links burn through the thin linen of his shirt and into his skin, imbedding in his flesh.

Matthew pushes away from the wall, taking Will with him and slamming him down onto his back on the concrete floor hard enough to rob him of his breath. The vampire has released Will’s arm at some point, and his blood pours in rivulets from the jagged, yellowed teeth, down Matthew’s chin to drip on Will’s face as he looms over him, his lips pulled back in that hideous facsimile of a smile.

His tongue runs over his sharp fangs in an exaggerated way, and he sighs happily. “You taste as good as you smell,” he says, voice distorted by his mouthful of bloody teeth, and when he lunges for Will’s throat Will closes his eyes, fully expecting his end, for real this time.

Instead of meeting his end, though, he feels the not insignificant weight of the vampire disappear from on top of him, and he opens his eyes in surprise to find Hannibal looming over him. His fangs are down, and his face twisted in animal rage, his cheek and throat burned from the chains and still sizzling. He’s holding Matthew by the scruff of his neck like a disobedient dog for one moment, and then in the next he’s got a hand in his hair, and with those dark, murderous eyes dead locked on Will’s, he _twists_.

Will has certainly _imagined_ what killing a vampire would be like, hundreds of thousands of times in the intervening years between his father’s death until now. Whatever his imaginings have been, nothing quite does justice to the real thing, nor would _anything_ have prepared him for the way Hannibal looks as he separates Matthew’s head clean from his shoulders with as little effort as it takes for him to pop the cork on a bottle of wine.

Blood, black and rancid, gushes sluggishly out of the ragged stump of the vampire’s neck. Hannibal’s eyes have not left Will’s, not even for a moment, even as the body falls to the ground with a sickening _thunk_ _._

Will swallows thickly, cradling his bleeding and injured arm to his chest, his gaze flickering down to where Hannibal still holds Matthew’s severed head by the hair and back up again. “I wasn’t done talking to him,” he manages to breathe out, his voice trembling, and—if he’s being honest with himself—not from fear in the least.

A muscle in Hannibal’s jaw tics, once, and he bares his fangs as he loosens his fingers and drops the vampire’s head. Will’s eyes drop, watching as it bounces and then rolls over to rest against the body it formerly belonged to, before it all begins to disintegrate quickly into a disgusting, bloody sludge. Will merely blinks at the sight, briefly ponders just when he became so unflappable that the display doesn’t bother him, before he raises his gaze meet Hannibal’s eyes. They’re shimmering red in the harsh overhead lights above them, and although his expression gives nothing away, Will knows without a doubt the vampire is _furious_.

“He _tasted you_ ,” Hannibal grits out between clenched teeth, voice harsh and accent thick, and oh yes, he’s _definitely_ furious. Will can feel it, rolling off of him in waves. Will’s power is still vibrating beneath his skin, and he can feel Hannibal’s own kind of power straining to reach his, brushing against him as softly as an exhale, as potent as shocks of electricity.

It’s _exhilarating_.

Will lets loose a shaky breath, and arches a brow, thinking of the night before in the stairwell when Hannibal found him bleeding out. “And what, you didn’t?” he asks lightly, teasingly, despite the subject matter.

Hannibal is on him in less than the blink of an eye.

Will finds himself pressed against the cold concrete floor, weighed down by a hefty, very angry, and _very_ amorous vampire. There’s no hesitation this time as he wraps his good arm around Hannibal’s neck, pulling that sharp, dangerous mouth to his. Their second kiss is no less savage than their first, but it lasts only a second, long enough for Hannibal’s tongue to slip into Will’s mouth for a different kind of taste of his own. And then he pulls away, burying his face in the crook of Will’s neck. Will is half-expecting for Hannibal to bite, but instead he feels him drawing in huge, shaky breaths. _Scenting_ him, he realizes, assuring himself Will is alive and as well as he ever is, Will supposes.

“Hannibal,” Will says with a tired sigh, petting a hand through his hair as he submits himself to being sniffed, sure he could put a stop to it if he tried, but unable to come up with a decent reason at the moment why he’d want to.

“ _Never_ ,” Hannibal rasps, voice muffled as he presses his mouth against the skin behind Will’s ear. He can feel his fangs, even sheathed as they are behind his lips, and he shivers before he can stop himself. The stab of _want_ he feels clouds his mind enough that he can’t quite make sense of Hannibal’s newest vehement promise, until he adds in a murmur, “Without your permission, Will, I would _never_.”

Will’s eyes open, blinking up at the ceiling over Hannibal’s shoulder with surprise at his confession. He knows there’s plenty Hannibal _would_ do without his permission—up to and including feeding him human flesh, for fuck’s sake—but every rational thought he’s ever had goes flying out the window when Hannibal, face still buried in the curve of Will’s throat, clutches him tighter and grinds his body _down_.

It only feels good for a second, but oh, what a second it is. Unfortunately, it also makes them both hiss in pain, though Hannibal barely seems to notice anything besides the sound Will makes. He releases him and pulls back, sitting back on his haunches, gripping Will’s uninjured arm to help him sit upright with him. Will allows him to pry his bleeding arm from his chest, and looks down long enough to see the deep rips in his skin left by the other vampire’s sharp teeth, nothing like Hannibal’s own fangs, which even now poke out from beneath his upper lip in two sharp, gleaming points.

Hannibal is, Will notices, much less amorous at the moment and back to being savagely angry. “He hurt you,” he spits out in a voice that’s half lost in a rumbling, rather homicidal sounding growl. His gaze turns to stare at the former vampire, current puddle of godawful vampire soup smoldering on the floor like he would like to end him all over again.

Will’s eyes fall to trace the deep ruts in Hannibal’s flesh where the silver landed on him, marring his smooth cheek and criss-crossing over his throat and chest, visible where his shirt has burned away. “He hurt you, too,” Will says softly, reaching out to touch the burn on his cheek with his good arm, but then hesitating at the last moment, leaving his hand hanging in the air.

Hannibal’s hand wraps around his wrist, and he presses his face into his palm and breathes out, “He almost took you from me, twice.”

Will supposes he should be bothered by the possessive language being used, but he can only manage to sigh. His head hurts, his arm hurts, his abdomen hurts, the use of his power has zapped the last of his already precariously low energy, and he’s pretty sure the last twenty-four hours have been the longest of his entire life. “Well,” he says lamely, looking over at what’s left of the vampire that nearly killed him, making a face and scrunching his bare toes in as the spreading circle of goo creeps closer to them, “He won’t be trying a third time.”

Hannibal’s hackles are still up, but he seems to realize there are more pressing matters to attend to at the moment than glaring at the mess on his basement floor. He turns his attention back to Will, returning his hand and his arm as he asks, “Can you stand?”

Will isn’t sure he can, and he thinks to lie, but instead what comes out of his mouth is, “Somehow I don’t think you’re planning to let me find out.”

Hannibal smiles, sweet and fond. His fangs are gone, leaving behind no trace, just his slightly crooked human teeth. He looks every bit the mild-mannered doctor Will thought he knew, but now that Will knows what lies beneath he wonders how he could have ever missed it. How he could have ever convinced himself, once he learned the truth, that he could separate the man from the beast.

There is certainly still a lot to unpack, but he aches and he’s exhausted, and it’s entirely too easy to slip his uninjured arm around Hannibal’s neck when the other man slides his own hands beneath him, to rest his aching head against Hannibal’s shoulder when he lifts him effortlessly into his arms as if he weighs nothing at all and rises fluidly to his feet.

Will sighs and lets his eyes flutter closed. They’re so heavy, it’s easy to do. It’s strange, how easy it feels for him to trust that he’ll be cared for, especially considering that the hands that cradle him so carefully just ripped another being’s head clean off their shoulders.

It’s easy, and it’s foreign, and it’s _nice._ Will feels the sway of Hannibal’s gait as he leaves his little underground dungeon behind, not bothering to shut the heavy door behind them.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, Will,” Hannibal’s deep voice rumbles through his chest, and Will feels the vibration of it against his cheek.

“What about the...” He stops, considers that Matthew didn’t leave much of a _body_ behind. He doesn’t know why he cares, anyway, but he still asks, “What about the mess?”

“I will take care of it later,” Hannibal replies as he begins to ascend the steps, “Do not concern yourself, Will.”

 _Do not concern yourself_ , Will repeats inwardly, making a face in his mind’s eye where Hannibal can’t see it and mocking his accent where he can’t hear it. How could he _possibly_ not concern himself? He had the opportunity to find out who sent Matthew, and—

Will’s eyes open, and he looks up to find Hannibal looking down at him, paused as he is at the top of the stairs. “What about his maker?” he asks, “How will we find him, without Matthew to lead us to him?”

He’s entirely too exhausted to care that somewhere along the way, in all of this mess, his _I_ has effortlessly and silently slipped into a _we._ It’s plain to see, though, that it isn’t lost on Hannibal, not in the least.

Perhaps it’s Will’s admission that prompts Hannibal to make one of his own.

“I already know who Matthew’s maker is,” he admits, his voice soft, his eyes far away, “I have been tracking him for centuries.”

 _Centuries_. The word rings loud in Will’s ears, his first taste of just how old the creature that holds him like something soft and delicate, something worth cherishing in his arms really is. “What?” he asks, shaken and breathy, needing to know the answer, _terrified_ of the answer, “How do you know who he is, Hannibal?”

Hannibal sighs and starts moving again, and for once doesn’t meet Will’s eyes when he answers.

“Because he is my maker, too.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, despite his promise to tell him everything, Hannibal hesitates. Will is still not used to seeing the man anything but sure of himself, and it’s striking. “One of my kind does not survive as long as I have by making our weaknesses known,” he says finally.
> 
> Will smiles, soft, and asks in a quiet voice, “Do you really think you’re the only one at war with your self-preservation instincts?"
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal patches Will up again, and this time, Will returns the favor.

_Because he is my maker, too_.

Will stays silent, too lost in thought to even take in his surroundings as Hannibal makes his way up the stairs with Will draped over his arms, bloody and clinging to him like some sort of damsel in distress. He’s been up there before, once, and only then to take a shower in one of the guest bedrooms. He’s fairly sure that they’re not headed towards one of the guest bedrooms, now, and although he’s beginning to chafe at the thought of being carried around like some sort of wilting flower—even though he _is_ feeling rather wilted at the moment—he’s too dumbstruck by Hannibal’s confession to summon the energy to object.

His mind is whirring, cataloging the recent turn in events. From the shift in he and Hannibal’s relationship (can something that feels as inevitable as the tides really be considered a shift?), and from what little snippets he was able to pull from Matthew before he met his end, he feels as though he’s trying to put together a puzzle with missing and misshapen pieces.

But in the end all he can really concentrate on is that his arm really fucking hurts, adding to the lingering ache from nearly getting gutted the night before, and despite the pain—not entirely because of it, he admits to himself—he supposes it feels nice enough to be cared for.

Hannibal seems eager enough to let the silence linger, concentrating on maneuvering the burden in his arms safely through the doorway to a room Will has never been to. Except, Will realizes with growing alarm, he _has_ seen it before. It looks different here, in his current reality; different than it did in the dream he woke up from...could it honestly only have been earlier that very day? It feels like a lifetime has passed, but he was _here_ , in this room with soft lighting and dark blue textured walls, in the incredibly soft bed that Hannibal is currently placing him on with achingly careful consideration of his wounds.

Will tries looks around, to study the room further as Hannibal unnecessarily ensures that the pillows behind Will’s head are properly fluffed. In such close quarters, Will’s eyes don’t have much else to land on besides the burns still etched deep in Hannibal’s flesh, red and singed against his normally unblemished pale skin, oozing dark blood that smells sweet and familiar enough to his heightened senses to make his mouth water before he catches himself. He blinks and forces his eyes away, and they move to the artwork on the wall behind him, the curved horns above the bed that Will would snort at if he could summon the energy—at the distinct lack of subtlety in that particular choice of decor in this particular room. The knick-knacks placed here and there are arranged in such a way that is meant to look careless and is in fact probably anything but, and the room itself somehow seems to ooze masculinity and virility, but in a maddeningly understated way.

It’s ridiculous, and lovely, and Hannibal to a tee. His dream may have lacked in some of the finer details, but the feel of the room is familiar, and he knows that even _his_ imagination couldn’t have just conjured this up.

He catches Hannibal’s wrist as he finally begins to pull away, having deemed the pillows to be properly fluffy and arranged just so. “You didn’t tell me what your blood would do to me,” Will accuses. Or he means to accuse, when in fact it comes out as more of a softly spoken remark. It’s too late to do anything about it now, after all. The alternative would be being entirely too dead to be accusing anybody of anything, and despite that he’s done a rather shitty job of showing it (because he honestly has no fucking clue how to even _begin_ to) he quite appreciates the fact that he has continued to be alive.

Hannibal watches all of this play out on Will’s face, then wets his bottom lip with his tongue and lets his fingers trail up to brush Will’s messy hair out of his face, dropping his eyes to watch his hand instead of looking Will in the eye. He seems to be considering his words before he speaks them into existence, which is rare enough for him for Will to make note of. “You know there was no time for that,” he finally replies, softly.

Will nods, shifting back against the pillows that he is forced to admit are obscenely comfortable thanks to Hannibal’s careful construction and cradles his throbbing, still-bleeding arm against his chest, his blood blooming bright red over the stark white of his ruined t-shirt. “What if I would have said no?” he asks, voice thoughtful, because after considering the alternative it’s something he suddenly desperately wants to know. “Would you have let me die?”

Hannibal doesn’t do him the disservice of answering right away, his eyes lost in thought as he lets his fingers linger in Will’s hair, letting a curl wrap around his finger. “What would you have me say, Will?” he answers quietly after a moment, his cool fingers trailing down Will’s cheek. He’s still leaning over him, mostly prone as he is on the bed, and Will tilts his head back against the pillows to meet his eyes when Hannibal’s gaze meets his, steady. “Do you wish for me to assure you that, in this, the choice was yours alone?” he asks, voice equally thoughtful, hardly more than a whisper.

“I want the truth,” Will tells him, matching his quiet tone, although there is no one near to hear them besides what remains of the former vampire lying in a viscous puddle on the basement floor.

“Then you shall have it,” Hannibal replies, voice half lost on a sigh, as if he’s already dreading the repercussions, “Even though I believe you already know.”

“Tell me,” Will breathes, watching as Hannibal shifts to take a seat on the bed beside him. He sits down heavily, wipes the blood—a mixture of Matthew’s, Will’s, and his own—from his hands onto his trousers, and then brings them up to rub at his eyes with the heels of his palms. It is, Will is struck to realize, perhaps the most human thing he’s ever seen the man do. Even before he realized he was...other than human. Will couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. Not now, maybe not ever again.

Hannibal works his jaw like it aches, drops his hands to press against his thighs, before he pushes himself to his feet. “I will tell you everything you want to know,” he vows, looking at Will over his shoulder. At the angle, the deep burn on his cheek stand out in stark contrast, and Will hates it venomously. He’s so caught up in his anger towards an actually-for-real-dead-this-time vampire for a moment that he barely misses Hannibal say, “But first, please allow me to tend to your wounds.”

Will wants to protest, but the way Hannibal asks—says _please_ —causes him to bite his tongue, watching instead as Hannibal disappears into the adjoining bathroom. He closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of cabinets opening and closing, water running, and then Hannibal’s footsteps as he returns to him, lighter than they should be for a man of his stature. He hears things being placed on the table beside the bed, one by one, and doesn’t bother opening his eyes until he feels the bed dip beside him again.

Hannibal helps him sit up with gentle hands, washed clean in the bathroom of the blood that was still staining them, before helping Will strip out of his bloody t-shirt, mindful of his wounded arm. The ruined shirt is dropped to the floor beside the bed, before just as gently, Hannibal presses Will back to rest against the pillows that feel like clouds behind him, then turns away to pick up the damp cloth Will supposes he had procured while in the bathroom.

Will’s eyes close on their own volition as Hannibal takes his chin between his fingers and brings the cloth up to wipe away the blood on his face, half out of resigned humiliation at having to be tended to _again,_ and half because it honestly feels good to be tended to at all. Hannibal carefully dabs away a streak of Will’s own blood, red across his cheek, and Matthew’s darker blood dotted across his face in a spray from the untimely removal of his head from his shoulders. Even though there’s only a little of it on him, it smells so strongly of rot that Will can’t get the scent of it out of his nose.

In the silence that ensues as Hannibal cares for him, Will can’t help but compare the difference between Matthew’s blood and Hannibal’s. Matthew’s was rank, and Hannibal’s...well. He decides it’s best at the moment not to dwell too much on Hannibal’s blood, how it tasted the night before when he drank from him to save his life.

He _decides_ not to dwell, but quickly realizes his mind has other ideas, and it’s not entirely up to him what he dwells on and what he does not. Under normal circumstances he would doubt his ability to get hard at the moment, thanks to his injuries old and new and what just happened downstairs with Matthew. Or maybe, more importantly, from rather pathetically jacking off with tears in his eyes in the shower earlier, and then coming _again_ with Hannibal’s perfect lips wrapped around him a short time later—because oh _god_ , that seriously happened, didn’t it? Perhaps it’s yet another side effect of the vampire’s blood that he’s doing his very best not to think about; how it tasted, the heady feeling of the magic within it twining with his own, how nice it would be to taste it again, and _soon_ , or maybe how nice it would feel for Hannibal to abandon the washcloth and instead lick him clean with that lethal fucking mouth of his...

He swallows thickly, and hopes Hannibal is too busy doctoring him to notice his stirring erection. He slits his eyes open just a crack to peer up at him, and finds Hannibal’s eyes hooded as he works, his pupils blown wide again just like they were earlier in the kitchen. _Before_ he started bleeding, his mind supplies helpfully, and so this time, it’s not because of the scent of blood.

Something in Will’s head belatedly clicks into place.

Will lazily shifts his uninjured arm, resting it across Hannibal’s lap, curving his hand around his side, his fingers gathering up a handful of his no longer pristine white shirt to hold on to. Even though Hannibal only pauses for a split second in his ministrations before continuing, Will gets half an answer to his next question just from feeling the insistent press of Hannibal’s own hardness against his forearm through his trousers.

“You can feel me somehow, can’t you?” he whispers softly, tilting his head to the side and closing his eyes again when Hannibal releases his chin to move onto his bloodstained throat, “That’s another one of the side effects you’ve conveniently forgotten to tell me about.”

Hannibal hums in assent, moving the warm cloth in his hand over his fingers to a clean spot before going back to work on Will’s skin. “I apologize for not presenting you with a list of the side effects of my blood while you were in your death throes, Will,” Hannibal replies, voice no different than usual but still holding a teasing edge that Will picks up on easily, “Next time I shall have something drawn up by my lawyer.”

Will huffs. “I’m glad _you_ think it’s funny,” he tries to chide, but his heart’s not in it. His hand tightens in Hannibal’s shirt to keep himself from moving it down, to press against his erection, to feel the size and shape of it in his hand. Because he wants to, _god_ , he wants to. His mouth nearly waters at the thought, and he wets his lips, and then prompts quietly, “You can tell me now, though.”

He opens his eyes to watch Hannibal as he works, using more concentration than is probably necessary, proving that he is just as effected by their close proximity as Will is. In fact, Will notices that he’s breathing somewhat shakily, making it even more obvious that he’s hardly seen him bother to breathe at all since Will realized that he doesn’t _need_ to. The absence of expected motion is truly noticeable, jarring even. It’s a part of his mask, Will realizes; a seam in the person suit he wears to appear human, and Will wonders at the thought of Hannibal having to force himself to do something unnecessary so consciously and constantly so that he blends in.

He wonders at the thought of Hannibal knowing he no longer has to hide in Will’s presence, wonders what that must feel like. Now that he thinks of it, since meeting Hannibal, Will imagines he might have a good idea  _exactly_ how that must feel.

While he watches, Hannibal touches the tip of his tongue to his teeth, human but still sharp. Maybe they always were, before he became a vampire. Will wants to know, desperately, and knows he’s been given free rein to ask, but where would he even start? Everything he thought he knew about the human man, he doesn’t, and what there is to know about the vampire is _legions_.

“I can feel you,” Hannibal admits finally, interrupting Will’s thoughts, spiraling out of control with so much knowledge finally at his fingertips as they are. “I will be able to for some time, until the effects of my blood wear off.” His dark eyes rise to meet Will’s, and he seems to ponder giving more information than was requested, and then seems to come to a decision. “I will be able to find you, if need be, and sense what you are feeling, be that fear, or happiness, or upset, or...” He trails off and merely raises a fair eyebrow suggestively, and Will can’t help the blush that rises on his cheeks, knowing that Hannibal felt how much he wanted him downstairs before their kiss, and during, and _after_.

How much he wants him even now, while Hannibal cleans his wounds with his usual gentle touch, too tender to be clinical.

Because he does, he wants him, _so_ fucking much.

Hannibal takes a steadying breath, his eyes lingering for a moment on the blood beneath Will’s skin coloring it rosy, watching it with near fascination. “The depths with which you feel emotion are...” he starts, and stops, seeming to consider his choice of words. “ _Captivating_ ,” is what he finally settles on, whispering the single word like an ardent prayer. “I have heard, of course, what it would be like to share myself with a human in this way. But you are no ordinary human, are you?” He doesn’t give Will much of a chance to object to this, giving a small shake of his head and a sigh that sounds almost overwhelmed as he adds, “I was...wholly unprepared for it.”

Will smiles, brittle and self-depreciating, moving his fingers to caress the skin beneath the fabric on Hannibal’s side, where it feels safe to touch. “Yeah, well,” he replies, “You should try experiencing it first-hand.” Hannibal just looks at him like he’s considering what it would be like to climb inside Will’s skin and do just that, and Will sighs, and prompts, “What else?”

Hannibal shakes himself, and reaches for Will’s injured arm where it lays limply on the bed, bleeding sluggishly on his pristine linens. When he pulls it across Will’s body, laid back on the pillows as it is, and into his line of sight, Will is less shocked this time to see that it’s well on its way to being healed already. “You already know this one,” Hannibal says, taking up his rag again to gently blot away the blood congealing in the deep trenches the vampire’s shark-like, jagged teeth left behind when clamped onto Will’s arm. Will had felt Matthew’s gnarled teeth scraping bone while it was happening, but already the gouges are knitting back together. He’s almost sure he can _see_ it healing right before his eyes, which he has to admit, is pretty fucking neat.

Hannibal lifts Will’s arm gently, lowering his head at once to smell what fresh blood remains within the wounds, his eyes closing for a moment with pure bliss. Will rolls his eyes, if only to cover the way the sight effects him, a stirring deep down in his belly he’s sure doesn’t go unnoticed by Hannibal. “The quickened healing, too, will last for some time,” Hannibal continues after a moment, looking like it pains him to lower Will’s arm from beneath his nose to place it down on the blankets again at Will’s side. “Although, I would greatly appreciate it if you stopped getting hurt as often as you have over the last twenty-four hours,” he adds ruefully.

Will snorts. “Yeah, I’d appreciate that too.” Apparently satisfied with his tending to Will’s wounds, Hannibal tosses the washcloth he was using on the floor with Will’s ruined shirt, and Will realizes belatedly that the vampire is still bent over him, having never straightened up after his bout of sniffing. His face is close to Will’s, and his eyes seem even darker than usual in the low light of the room, but even still Will can pick out the individual flecks of what must be a million shades of brown and red. “Your eyes are gorgeous,” he blurts out in a whisper, in a far more breathy voice than he means to. But Hannibal is so close, and Will _wants_. He aches with it, and knows now that because of the tether between them, Hannibal aches with it too.

Even still, something else clicks into place, and unable to stop staring like an idiot into Hannibal’s eyes— _gorgeous,_ did he _really_ just say that out loud? _fuck—_ to catalog a myriad of colors, some of which he’s pretty sure have never been discovered until this moment, he asks distractedly, “Heightened senses too, I guess?”

“Yes,” Hannibal murmurs, “Heightened senses. You may have noticed sensitivity to light, to scent and sound already.” Will tries to concentrate, vaguely remembering the sun hurting his eyes on his way to Hannibal’s house, but then Hannibal’s hand is touching his cheek, fingers rasping against his scruff, and Will can’t think anymore at all for a moment. “And touch,” Hannibal adds, his voice a hushed rumble, his eyes moving to follow the trail his fingers make along the line of Will’s jaw, and then he’s lowering his head without breaking eye contact—which should be weird but it’s not, it’s _not—_ to add with a cool whisper against Will’s lips, “And _taste_.”

This kiss is quite unlike their last two. Where they were both a result of the heat of the moment, this one is chaste, hesitant. Hannibal’s lips are so soft, and they catch against Will’s, lingering. He pulls back only enough to meet Will’s eyes, as if he’s unsure—despite what Will now knows he can feel thrumming through his blood—that Will might still want this, want him this way. When Will isn’t driven by anger and pain and _want_ , when Hannibal isn’t going half out of his mind with rage and bloodlust.

Will  _does_ want _._ He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything in his life, the way he wants Hannibal to kiss him again.

Just like this, just as they are.

His fingers find their way to the nape of Hannibal’s neck, and he gently pulls, closing the hair’s-breadth of space parting them. Their lips meet again, just as soft, just as careful, and Hannibal makes a quiet sound that tugs painfully at Will’s heart. Though most of Will’s mind is otherwise occupied, he marvels at the feeling of the short, impossibly sleek hair at the nape of Hannibal’s neck, and runs his fingers through it for good measure. He could swear he feels each individual strand against his fingertips like silk.

Heightened senses, indeed.

Hannibal had offered him a taste, and Will takes it, parting his lips and licking into Hannibal’s mouth when he parts his own with a groan, their tongues touching and sliding wetly together. Just like the first time they kissed, the flavor of Hannibal—wine sweetness, bloody darkness, death and life as he’s never known it, something positively _indescribable_ —floods Will’s senses.

He is drowning in it, happily enough, until the moment that his fingers move from Hannibal’s hair to touch his cheek, where he feels something besides the most ridiculous bone structure known to man. He pulls away, blinking his eyes open to look at the bloody ridges the silver chain left behind on Hannibal’s face up close for the first time. All of those colors in Hannibal’s eyes are nearly gone, eclipsed by his pupils, and he tilts his head into Will’s touch even as his exploring fingers cause him to wince so minutely that if Will wasn’t so close, he would probably miss it.

“Hannibal,” he whispers as his fingers touch the places where the silver had embedded into his skin, melting and burning flesh, leaving behind raw red beneath and singed skin around the edges, “Why aren’t you healing?”

Hannibal pulls back, only a little bit, only enough to shift to take Will’s hand away from his face and press a lingering kiss against his palm. “I will be fine,” he replies, but the space he’s put between them only allows Will a better view of much of the same, burns in the shape of chain links winding across his throat and disappearing beneath his tattered shirt.

Will licks his lips, tastes Hannibal there where he kissed him so soft and sweet, and narrows his eyes. He pushes against Hannibal’s broad shoulder and struggles to sit up. Hannibal is as immovable as stone, and Will is sure he’s only successful in maneuvering him back and himself into a sitting position because the man allows it, but Will doesn’t much care. He reaches out, one hand steadier than the other thanks to being chomped on like a dog toy earlier in the basement, fingers finding Hannibal’s buttons and flicking them open one by one.

It’s with a strange sense of déjà vu that Will takes in the sight of Hannibal’s bare skin as he moves the open edges of his tattered shirt out of the way, revealing first the silvering hair covering his chest, and then the firm muscles of his broad shoulders as he pushes the shirt down his arms. “I dreamed of you,” he murmurs softly, watching as Hannibal obediently shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor to join Will’s own. Will glances up at him and then back down at his hand as he reaches out to rest his hand over Hannibal’s heart. The lack of movement, of heartbeat, the soft skin beneath coarse hair all feel so hauntingly familiar that he asks hesitantly, “ _Was_ it a dream?”

“Yes. And not entirely, no,” Hannibal replies enigmatically, a complete nonsense answer that would sound absurd coming from anyone else, and yet somehow manages to make sense coming from him, under their current circumstances anyway.

Another side effect of his blood, then.

Will nods, and spreads his fingers wide, allows himself to touch like he did in his dream, letting his hand wander across the smattering of hair on his chest to the smooth, soft skin of his shoulder, fingers curling around the muscle and squeezing, using the grip to gently pull him closer until their lips brush again. Though Hannibal’s chest had been still of breath in his dream, it’s not now, like he can’t quite hide his reaction to Will’s touch, to his kiss, to the way their tongues meet and twine together as naturally as if they had always been together like this, like this isn’t uncharted territory for the both of them. He feels quite pleased about that, for a second anyway, until his fingers encounter more burned flesh as they travel over Hannibal’s collarbone and to the center of his throat. He tries to pull away again, and Hannibal in turn tries his best to distract him with another kiss.

Will’s hand tightens on Hannibal’s throat, palm pressing hard against the burn beneath it, still hot even though the skin surrounding it is cool. Hannibal pulls back immediately to look at him, dark eyes blazing at the pain he inflicts—but not because it hurts, that much is clear. “Will,” he whispers roughly, the single syllable sounding torn out of him.

“Tell me,” Will demands, giving his throat another squeeze, even though he knows there’s no real danger in it, considering Hannibal doesn’t need to breathe.

Still, despite his promise to tell him everything, Hannibal hesitates. His fingers brush, cool, against Will’s cheek, and he smiles, soft and small. Will is still not used to seeing the man anything but sure of himself, and it’s striking. “One of my kind does not survive as long as I have by making our weaknesses known,” he says finally. His thumb brushes against Will’s lower lip, just as Will’s thumb traces the edges of the burn on his neck, through a fresh trickle of blood that wells up from it.

Will smiles, soft, and asks in a quiet voice, “Do you really think you’re the only one at war with your self-preservation instincts?”

Hannibal huffs a soft laugh that shows itself more in the crinkles around his eyes than in the sound. Will can’t help but move his hand from his throat to touch them, those little signs of a life lived before he was frozen in time, transferring a smear of the blood from his thumb there. His eyes fall to watch the curve of Will’s mouth when he smiles crookedly, and leans in as if he cannot help himself but to kiss his lips. His eyes are dark, so dark when he pulls away. “It’s the silver,” he murmurs, and his voice rumbles like the purring of a great cat in the quiet of the room, an impression that only grows with the way he nuzzles his cheek against Will’s palm as he explains softly, “I won’t heal for some time unless I feed.”

Will doesn’t consider for as long as he ought to before he whispers, “So, feed on me.”

Hannibal’s fangs slam down with a sound reminiscent of a sword being unsheathed and just as threatening, so quickly that even he seems surprised by it. Will feels an honest to god _thrill_ rush through him, seeing Hannibal lose his iron grip on his control, even just a little bit. “ _Will_ ,” he growls, voice so rough it sounds as though it’s been drug through broken glass on its way out of his mouth, “I will not—”

His objection dies a sudden death when Will presses his thumb against his mouth, settling it on that fucking upper lip of his, pushing it briefly out of its maddeningly perfect shape. Hannibal’s eyes are black as pitch and glittering like onyx, staring unblinking at him, like he could find the nourishment he needs in the very sight of him alone.

In the ensuing silence, Will gives his offer the consideration it deserves. Considers all the questions left so far unanswered, and what those answers could mean. Considers what can only be construed as his complacency in Hannibal’s crimes, considering he currently finds himself voluntarily in the vampire’s bed, and what that means for him, and his sense of right and wrong.

Then he considers the rest. He considers acceptance, and he considers love. He considers Hannibal choosing to share an integral part of himself to save Will’s life.

_Why didn’t you just let me die?_

_You_ know _why._

Will wets his lips, and moves his thumb against Hannibal’s own. Watches as those lips part, and as his thumb draws down the razor-sharp edge of one of Hannibal’s fangs, just as he did when he was dying in his arms the night before. Hannibal is holding himself so still, wide-eyed and frozen, as though such an intimate caress seems to be too much for him, his eyes fluttering closed as a full body shudder runs through him.

“It’s the least I could do,” Will whispers, because it feels right to say so, and then presses his thumb against the tapered end of one fang. He sucks in a breath as it slices neatly into the pad of his thumb with next to no pressure applied, and he pulls his hand back in front of his eyes to watch in fascination as single drop of blood wells up, shining like a tiny ruby.

His eyes rise to find Hannibal still frozen, not a breath taken, not a muscle moving. He’s not, Will is surprised to discover, staring at the blood. Instead, he’s still looking right at Will, looking as though he’s in silent raptures, like he’s seeing the face of god.

Will didn’t realize he was testing his monster until the moment his monster passed the test.

He reaches forward, fingers rasping against the barest hint of stubble on Hannibal’s jaw, and ever-so-gently presses his thumb between his soft lips. The very second that drop of blood hits Hannibal’s tongue, he bursts into motion once again. With a muffled moan, he sucks hard on Will’s thumb, drawing out a few more drops as he reaches for him, hands finding purchase and digging into flesh and muscle in his explosive, unbound desperation. With his free hand, Will is reaching back, clamoring into Hannibal’s lap as his own hands grip and pull him there with strength as dreadful and terrifying as it is intoxicating.

Hannibal trades Will’s thumb, cut already healing, for Will’s lips, and Will holds his face in both hands and kisses him back, as urgently as he did in the kitchen, as desperate as he did in the basement, as sweetly as he did in the very bed they sit, wrapped around each other, on the edge of even now. In a careless moment, his tongue slices against Hannibal’s fangs, and the vampire groans as if he’s pained by the taste of Will’s blood spilling between their mouths.

He sucks on Will’s tongue until it heals, and then they both pull away, gasping for breath despite the fact that only Will truly needs it. Will presses his forehead to Hannibal’s and clings to him, stares at the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, and is struck dumb by having seen the same thing in his dream.

He feels the same urge he did then to lean in and lick it away, but Hannibal is speaking, soft and rushed. “You do not have to do this, Will,” he rasps, not breaking eye contact, his hands desperately clutching at the bare skin of Will’s back, defying his own words with his obvious hunger.

Will rolls his eyes, because doesn’t he fucking know that already, and asks, panting, “Do you have a list of side effects for me this time?”

Hannibal laughs—really, actually _laughs._ It’s a deep, rich sound that suits him perfectly, and sends a shiver down Will’s spine. “No, Will,” he answers, rubbing his forehead against Will’s as he pulls him closer so that their bare chests are pressed together, “None.”

Will decides he’ll unpack later why he never considers for a second that Hannibal could be lying.

“Do it,” Will whispers, his voice breaking off into a long moan at the feel of the other man’s body against his when he is kissed thoroughly again. His skin is blessedly cool, like leaping in one of the quarry ponds of his youth on a hot summer day, the hair on his chest brushing soft and ticklish against Will’s own bare skin. Hannibal’s hands seem to be everywhere at once, touching as much of Will’s skin as he can, as does his mouth, pressing a flurry of kisses against his throat and then his jaw before moving back to his lips again.

Hannibal’s hand is in his hair now, twisting the locks around his fingers, and Will moans into their kiss at the threat of pain and grinds his hips _down_. He doesn’t realize just how hard he has become until the moment he feels Hannibal’s answering erection against his, and they both break away from their kiss with nearly agonized sounding groans, their eyes meeting dark and hungry as Hannibal’s hand comes to rest at the small of Will’s back, pressing insistent, encouraging him to do it again.

He does, rolling his hips to press them together, as Hannibal looks up at him, rapt. “Come on, Hannibal,” he insists, voice half lost in another moan as his clothed cock ruts along side Hannibal’s and he tilts his head to the side in invitation, in _demand_.

“Yes,” Hannibal grinds out, his voice a ruin, baring his fangs as Will rolls his hips again, tightening his hand in Will’s hair to wrench his head to the side.

Then, he _strikes_.

Hazily, Will remembers the man Hannibal left him in the woods, remembers the way he felt when he was dying, and understands abruptly what would cause a man to beg for this, to beg for it until he had nothing left to give.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Will cries out as those long, sharp fangs pierce his skin, slicing clean and deep into the flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It hurts, _god_ it fucking hurts, but only for a second, because then Hannibal’s lips seal around the wound he made and he _sucks_ , and Will suddenly feels like he’s melting.

Hannibal makes a broken sound as he gulps his first mouthful of Will’s blood, a wet, ragged snarl that Will can feel down to his bones, liquid as he is. The coolness of Hannibal’s skin against his contrasts with how hot his mouth feels against his throat, and each draw he takes feels like it’s being pulled from the core of him, each time Hannibal’s throat works in a swallow, like it’s filling him up with something molten and bright that settles in his belly and begs for release.

He’s again not entirely sure who reaches for who first, any more than he isn’t sure that they aren’t currently operating as one, but both of Will’s hands are suddenly working feverishly at the fastenings of Hannibal’s trousers, just as Hannibal blindly uses the hand not still wrapped in Will’s hair to free Will’s cock from his pajama pants. Will doesn’t realize he’s been moaning constantly until the sounds spilling out of him are cut off abruptly by his ragged gasp when he gets his own hand around Hannibal’s cock for the first time, pulling him free too. “ _Hannibal_ ,” he chokes out as the man’s large hand wraps around them both, stroking them together feverishly. Will’s hands fly up to grip his shoulders, unable to do anything but hold on as skin slides against silky skin, aided along by how wet they both are, both of them leaking copiously all over each other.

Hannibal’s hand twists just so around them, pulsing in time with his blood that seems to be rushing out of Will and into Hannibal like it knows inside of him is where it belongs, like it’s in a desperate rush to be one again with Hannibal’s own.

Will feels like he’s dying.

Will feels like he’s never been more alive.

And then Hannibal is drawing deeply one last time on his throat and then wrenching himself away to crush his lips to Will’s, and can taste himself there, his blood on Hannibal’s lips, on his tongue, and that’s all it takes. He comes so hard he sees stars, his release spilling out over both of them, and Hannibal follows almost immediately with a vicious snarl against his lips.

Hannibal’s hand slows but doesn’t stop, stroking them together slowly as Will collapses against his heaving chest, tears burning his eyes from overwhelm and oversimulation and gasping for breath as Hannibal’s hand milks them both of the last few drops of their shared release. For a moment, they stay that way, clutching on to one another with their mess between their bellies, kissing clumsily with Will’s blood between their lips.

Will’s heart is pounding against Hannibal’s chest, and even though he feels no heart beating in return, Hannibal is warm in his arms from his meal, from the nourishment Will provided for him, and Will feels nourished himself by the thought.

They manage to release each other in increments, once their breathing has slowed, enough that Will can lean back and look down at Hannibal. His hands move, his fingers tracing along his cheek and watching in wonder as the burns, already half gone, heal completely before his very eyes. Hannibal’s own gaze is downcast, his bloodstained lips parted as he breathes unnecessarily, until Will’s fingers on his jaw guide him to tilt his head up.

Hannibal goes without resistance, allowing Will to look his fill. His fangs and teeth are rimmed red with blood, and his pupils are huge, his gaze heavy and weighted and slightly out of focus. He looks as if he’s been _drugged,_ and Will realizes that it’s the combination of his blood and the release he helped coax from him that has left Hannibal—the ancient, powerful, terrifying creature of nightmares he knows him now to be—looking so undone.

Will has a lot of experience wielding power, but he’s never felt something this heady in his life. It’s exhilarating to the point that it’s terrifying, that it could quickly and easily become addicting. He looks down at his monster, knowing what he’s done, choked with a great swell of emotion that frightens him to his core, and he _knows_.

He knows he’s going to have to keep him.

Hannibal’s eyes are slowly beginning to clear, revealing a fearsome possessiveness brewing behind the parting haze. Will recognizes it because he feels it too, clawing at his chest, and knows now Hannibal feels it in him, swarming up like black flies to combine with his own.

“Beautiful, terrible boy,” Hannibal whispers roughly, “You taste like tempting fate.”

Will laughs, because to him, Hannibal feels like fate itself. He thinks of a proverb on the subject he read at some point in his life that has stuck with him, tucked away unknowingly into some darkened corner of his mind: _you often meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it_. Because despite everything, what choice did he ever have? When he’s with Hannibal, even now, even knowing what he knows, he has the hysterical feeling that this has been written in the stars since the beginning—something before his beginning, before even Hannibal’s.

But at the same time, he can’t help but think of what transpired in the kitchen. That moment spent in Hannibal’s mind, the words spoken so ardently after.

“ _You’re one of them.”_

“ _I think you know I’m not.”_

There’s so much wrong, so much left to understand, to figure out, but what sense of righteousness wouldn’t pale in comparison to this? In the end, he decides fate has nothing on free will. As ludicrous as he might have found the idea before, he very well may have found fate after all on the road he was set on decades before, feeling his father die at the hands and teeth of a vampire. He could have—perhaps _should_ have—thumbed his nose at the fate the stars have in store for him, if this is what they had in mind.

But he didn’t. He knows now that he _won’t._

He cups Hannibal’s freshly healed cheek and lowers his head for another taste of himself on his lips, and whispers honestly against them the truth he feels suffusing him to the point it begs for release.

“You taste like a _choice_.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the universe should have kept them apart, but instead it brought them together, and Will can’t help but think that the results might be nothing short of apocalyptic, cataclysmic.
> 
> When Hannibal kisses him again, Will decides he really doesn’t give a shit.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal begins to make good on a promise, and Will receives a summons.

Somewhere between having his third orgasm wrung out of him in so many hours, the blood loss, and the goddamn disaster the last day of his life has been, Will’s body and his mind had apparently had enough. He awakes slowly from a blessedly dreamless sleep, wrapped in the softest sheets he’s sure he’s ever had the privilege of touching in his life, in a bed so soft he may as well be in a peaceful recline on a cloud.

He isn’t, though, unless that cloud is also occupied by a vampire. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, and is even less sure of how long it’s been since he arrived at Hannibal’s house, but his internal clock—faulty at the best of times, he’ll admit—is telling him that it’s either very late or very early, depending on whose standards one went by.

There are fingers combing slowly through his hair, refreshingly cool skin against his cheek, and something fuzzy tickling his nose. He opens his eyes slowly to find that the something fuzzy in question is the hair on Hannibal’s chest, and he decides he can safely assume that the fingers belong to the same man. At some point during his impromptu nap, Hannibal must have left him, since he feels wiped clean of the mess they had made together—Will blushes, because _oh my god—_ and he thinks he might be—yes, he definitely _is—_ no longer wearing the pajama pants he was half-wearing the last he remembers. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table on the other side of Hannibal that Will is reasonably sure was procured for him, and beyond that, Will recognizes the familiar shape of his formerly missing phone.

He wonders how long Hannibal was gone, and if he had made time to venture downstairs and clean up the _other_ mess they had made together—this one, a bloody pool down below in the basement—while Will was sleeping. The mess that, Will realizes, had a name; who no doubt at one point in time was a _person_ , who most likely had a family that may still be missing him. Part of him is appalled that he’s not all that bothered by this sudden revelation, or perhaps more so by the fact that he hadn’t had that revelation sooner. The rest of him can’t shake the feeling of _nothingness_ he felt in both of those brief moments within Matthew’s head, the sight of he and his cohorts rending people to shreds. He remembers seeing himself through Matthew’s eyes as he followed him, as he watched Will and Hannibal from just outside the house.

He decides that he’s glad he’s dead, despite all the questions still remaining unanswered.

He knows just as surely he’s been given free rein to ask the questions that are still rattling around in his mind, quieted only briefly when his mind couldn’t process any other thought besides how much he wanted Hannibal. They all come rushing back to him now, though, and he lets them wash over him. He remembers clearly leaving the BAU the night before, desperate for a chance to think. It seems like seconds ago and years ago at the same time, but either way, he never got the chance. He closes his eyes, lets the fingers rhythmically combing through his hair lull him, and allows his mind to wander.

Eventually, after he has wandered stumbling down all the paths he could find like he’s lost in a hopeless hedgemaze, his eyes open once more. He tilts his head, chancing his first glance up at Hannibal, and can’t help the way he stares. Hannibal looks impossibly softer in the low light coming from a lamp at the bedside, but even still, he looks as though he’s carved from stone. His eyes are open, but he’s staring off into space, the arm that’s not around Will propped at the elbow on the bed beside him, his fingers curled and his thumb brushing his lower lip. If it wasn’t for the rippling movements of muscle in his shoulder beneath Will’s head as he continues to pet his hair—because there’s no other word for what’s happening, he’s being _petted_ , and absently at that—he would be completely and utterly still. He’s no longer bothering to breathe, now that Will knows it’s not necessary. There’s no heart thudding beneath Will’s hand where it’s splayed across his chest.

He looks like something an artist of days long since gone would have carved from marble; every bit as still, and just as pale but for the touch of flush on the highest points of his cheekbones. This he owes to his recent meal, Will supposes, and he just barely stops himself from shivering at the phantom memory of those fangs buried in his throat, at the thought that’s too deep for him to contemplate at the moment of how he’s shared himself, his very _life_ , with someone else.

It should be completely unnerving, but Will is a little shocked to realize he is quite the opposite of unnerved.

He takes the opportunity to study the other man in this rare moment where he’s not looking back at him with his dark eyes and heavy gaze, seeming to stare through him to read the thoughts projected on the back of his skull. His eyes wander from the jut of his brow, to the shape of his nose, to the plush curve of his upper lip, and wonders if those ancient artists of yore hadn’t caught a glimpse of Hannibal somewhere, and spent the rest of their years trying to recreate what they saw with their chisels.

If they _had_ , they hadn’t even come close to capturing his beauty. Not by a long shot. The man is truly something else.

Will suddenly feels very small and plain, out of place and way out of his league, but at the same time, he feels like he belongs here, belongs here with _him_. He feels at home, which is really something considering that home is as foreign a word to Will Graham as any other on earth.

The chest beneath his hand expands ever so slightly with an intake of breath for which to speak. “I can hear you thinking,” Hannibal murmurs, coming out of his stasis a little further to smile, only the barest curve of his mouth, but it crinkles the corners of his eyes. His voice is a lazy, gravelly rumble, his accent thick and heavy like he can’t be bothered with forming his syllables more clearly at the moment. Will’s heart feels too full and large to be contained in its brittle cage of ribs.

He has to look away, instead focusing his attention on his hand as his fingers curl through the graying hair on Hannibal’s chest, returning Hannibal’s continued petting of the hair on his head. “I could say the same for you,” he whispers, fingertips mapping the shape of the other man’s body, frozen in time as it is, beneath them; the hard muscle, the soft, pale skin covering it. He bites his lip, then releases it to ask, “Where did you go?”

Hannibal doesn’t need to question rather or not Will is asking where he went, literally, while he slept. He tips his head back into the plush softness of the pillows, wets his lips, and answers softly, “I was...contemplating.”

Will smiles, glances up at the underside of Hannibal’s jaw. “Care to share with the class?” he asks lightly, eyeing the beginnings of stubble shading his pale skin barely darker. As Hannibal considers his answer, Will wonders idly if Hannibal has to shave; despite the few answers he’s managed to procure, his list of questions seems to be growing exponentially by the second.

“I was contemplating the stretch of time, forwards and backwards, and the rules of disorder,” Hannibal answers vaguely. He tilts his chin down to look Will in the eye, and Will doesn’t look away. He only waits to see if Hannibal would like to elaborate, and after a moment, he does. “It seems impossible to me that I did not know you, before I knew you,” he goes on, his voice a roughened murmur, his tongue smoothing over his consonants like a body of water slowly softening stone over time. Will’s eyes drop to his lips, watching transfixed at the way they shape each word when he continues, “It seems impossible that I was not somehow aware of you, from the very moment you entered this world. Centuries have passed by in the blink of an eye, and yet now, knowing what I know, the intervening years between your birth and this moment in retrospect seem to be the longest of my life.”

Will isn’t sure what to make of that. His mind sticks on the word _centuries_ , and he wrinkles his nose. “Don’t you think you’re already robbing the cradle enough as it is?” he replies, and earns another one of Hannibal’s rare laughs. It rumbles out through his chest, through Will’s fingers, and settles somewhere in the core of him with the quiet things he secretly treasures.

They fall into silence again, this time watching each other, continuing their mutual petting; Hannibal’s hand drifting down to stroke along Will’s bare spine, while Will’s fingers find their way up to drift across Hannibal’s collarbone, free now from the burns that marred his pale skin before. All that is left now is a single scar, small and paler than the rest of his skin, at the center of his throat. Will touches it, runs his thumb over it, curious about the way Hannibal flinches slightly but not enough to break the easy silence that’s fallen around them as he touches and is touched in turn.

It feels good, to be touched. Will has never had this before. There have been others here and there, but nothing more than casual fucks that were meaningless by design; a means to a particular end, dissolved long before anyone could ask any questions he had no intention of answering, before he could make things weird by seeing too much or saying the wrong thing.

He wonders if it hasn’t been the same for Hannibal, wonders how he could possibly find the words to ask.

Almost as if he has read Will’s mind—which he’s pretty sure he can’t do, at least he _really_ fucking hopes not—Hannibal breaks the silence that has settled so comfortably between them. “I suppose you have more questions you wish to ask,” he murmurs, sighing as if this is a great burden for him to bear.

Will snorts before he can stop himself. “Yeah, you could say that,” he replies, baring his teeth in a lopsided grin. He shakes his head and huffs a sigh of his own, pressing his nose into the meat of Hannibal’s shoulder. He smells _so_ fucking good. “I don’t even know where to start,” he says after a moment, muffled.

Hannibal smiles down at him again, achingly warm and fond. “Wherever you would like,” he answers, as if it’s really that simple.

Will moves to rest his chin against Hannibal’s chest, and is almost derailed completely from his plans to get some answers when Hannibal shifts against him. His legs are bare too, and Will realizes with a start that he’s as naked as Will is. He wonders idly if the coming conversation wouldn’t be better made with pants on at least, for god’s sake, but he supposes its too late now. He probably should have thought of that _before_ they went and got their dicks out.

Will sighs again, louder this time. “I know where I _should_ start,” he says finally, slipping a leg over Hannibal’s beneath the sheets. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, looking absurdly innocent, which causes Will’s own brows to furrow in turn, summoning a shadow of the anger that was consuming him earlier as he accuses, “You’re a cannibal.”

Hannibal smirks, and Will has to rein in the urge to knock the expression off his face. “Am I?” he asks lightly, and Will decides that this monster that he loves has the ability to be _quite_ annoying when he wants to be. Hannibal licks his lips, and then turns his eyes to the ceiling again. “Cannibalism suggests partaking in the flesh of the same species, my dear,” he argues, as much as his soft voice and amused tone could be considered arguing, “The same species, we are not.”

Will rolls his eyes and huffs. “Fine,” he concedes, since he has a hard enough time imagining Hannibal _ever_ being human, he’s so far from it now, but is quick to point out, “You made _me_ into a cannibal, then.”

Hannibal tilts his head against the pillow and looks down at him, and his eyes are the color of fresh blood, now, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. “Beautiful boy,” he murmurs, his fingers rising from where they had settled on his back to toy at the curls at the nape of Will’s neck, “You cannot possibly think yourself to be the same as them. No more than a wolf would count himself amongst his sheep.”

Will opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. It seems fruitless to argue something that Will has felt all of his years on this earth, even in his earliest memories feeling set apart from everyone, even his father. Also, he knows if he were to argue, he would come closer to admitting—to Hannibal, to himself—that what he’s eaten, what Hannibal hasfed him, doesn’t bother him the way that he knows it should. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that his anger when he realized what Hannibal has done was a product of how betrayed he felt at the time, not from learning the full truth of what Hannibal is.

What he _thought_ he was, anyway. He remembers the first flash of a pair of fangs in the stairwell where he almost bled to death, and in how many ways the man sharing his bed with him differs from the creatures he’s been hunting for most of his life.

He’ll get there, eventually. But first, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he blurts out, “What kind of vampire eats food at all, anyway?”

Hannibal sighs again, and if he was literally anyone else on earth, Will would think he was close to rolling his eyes. He tilts his head on the pillow to look down at Will, his fingers once again moving lazily through his hair. “I forget that the human race have become such experts on my kind in the last century,” he says, his deep, soft voice rasping over the words, “With your books and your films and your television programs.” Will goes to open his mouth to argue that he can’t have it both ways, can’t lump him in with humans in one moment and then set him apart in the next, but Hannibal presses his thumb against his lips to hush him. “It takes practice, just like anything else worth doing,” he explains, his eyes dropping to watch as his thumb gently mashes Will’s lips out of shape, adding, “Over the years I have found a balance so that I may enjoy some variety in my diet. Food does not nourish me, in the traditional sense of the word, but one grows bored of the same thing after the first five hundred years or so.”

It’s all Will can do not to gape at him. Will doesn’t know Hannibal’s true age, but his little hints here and there make him almost afraid to ask. He tries to hide it by pressing his open mouth against the meat of Hannibal’s thumb, setting his teeth against it, lips curling up into a smirk as he watches Hannibal’s pupils dilate.Will gets the feeling he’s about to be distracted again, and so he pulls his mouth away before that can happen. “Is that how you ended up eating... _people_? Boredom?”

Hannibal only continues watching him with his preternatural stillness, but even as Will says the words, though, he knows that’s not right, and he shakes his head, the point of his chin still pressed against Hannibal’s bare chest. “No,” he answers his own question, eyes growing unfocused even as they remain trained on Hannibal, “That’s not it. Nobody just develops that pathology...not even you, not even with all this time on your hands to _evolve_.” Hannibal has gone unnervingly still again beneath him, around him, and Will’s eyes sharpen. He remembers in the kitchen, his dip into Hannibal’s mind. Remembers unbearable cold, even more unbearable hunger.

“Something happened to you,” Will breathes out, and knows at once it is true, even if he doesn’t know what that something was. “This goes back to when you were human, doesn’t it?” he asks, watching as Hannibal blinks, just once, his only reaction to Will’s probing questions, “You ate someone, and got a taste for it.”

Hannibal swallows and looks away, and Will knows then, without a doubt, that he’s right. “Remarkable boy,” Hannibal whispers, his eyes returning to Will’s, and within them him sees a look that tells him Hannibal is seriously considering eating Will alive, in more ways than one. “Would that I could peer into your mind to see the inner workings, as you can,” he sighs, a hint of longing in his voice.

Will’s imagination readily supplies an image of Hannibal peeling off the top of his skull to look inside, and refuses to let himself be distracted by the absolutely inappropriate stirring of arousal he feels at the thought. He clears his throat when Hannibal smirks, knowingly. “It was him, wasn’t it?” he asks, lifting his head to lean back against the arm Hannibal has around him, to better see his face. “Your...the one that made you into...” He gestures weakly at Hannibal, reclining against the pillows in a picturesque sprawl in all his undead glory, with a flick of his fingers. “Who is he?”

Hannibal turns his head to look at Will fully, his eyes studying his face. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then looses a soft, rumbling growl and looks away again. “You must realize that I have never spoken of any of this before,” he says, voice soft and uncharacteristically unsure.

Will _hadn’t_ realized that, and gives the realization the moment of consideration it is due; imagining how it has felt to carry his own secrets over the scant few decades of his life. Imagines multiplying that infinitely, for however many years Hannibal has walked the earth. It’s appropriately mind-boggling, but. “In the stairwell,” he whispers, reaching out to lay his fingers on Hannibal’s cheek, gently guiding him to turn back and meet his eyes, “When I was dying. You told me you’d tell me anything. Did you mean it?”

Hannibal smiles and turns his head to press his nose against Will’s palm and licks at the soft inside of his wrist. “I very rarely say anything I do not mean,” he answers, reaching up to twine his fingers with Will’s. He’s silent for a moment, turning Will’s hand so that he can nip at the tips of each of his fingers with his blunt teeth, before he pulls their joined hands away, resting them together over his still heart.

He’s silent long enough that Will has begun to consider the best way to be taken seriously while demanding information when one isn’t wearing pants, and is almost startled when Hannibal takes a sharp breath before beginning to speak. “He called himself Magnusson, back then,” Hannibal tells him, finally, “Over the past few centuries he has taken to calling himself Mason.”

“I saw him,” Will says, “I think. In Matthew’s mind.”

Hannibal’s eyes sharpen at this. “What did you see?”

Will wets his lips and closes his eyes, thinks, tries to call the flash he saw in the vampire’s mind forth for better inspection. “Blonde,” Will says after a moment, his brow furrowing, “The kind of blonde that only children usually have naturally. Really blue eyes, unnaturally so. He...” He trails off, tries to choose his words so that they reflect what he saw, what he felt seeing the vampire from Matthew’s limited point of view. “He... _reeked_ of cruelty.”

Will feels tarnished just thinking of it, as if the memory is something corporeal that could brush against his skin and leave behind an oily residue. Hannibal lifts their hands from his chest, fingers still wrapped around one another, and kisses his knuckles. “Human emotions were a gift from our animal ancestors,” he murmurs, his cool lips still brushing Will’s skin. Will feels like he has no choice but to open his eyes and stare at the place where flesh meets flesh, transfixed. “Cruelty is a gift humanity gave itself, and some received more of it than others. When one is turned, their gifts are often amplified,” he says, pausing for a moment press a kiss against the back of Will’s hand, “I believe Mason was an especially cruel human, and in the intervening years, his cruelty has been...cultivated and refined.”

Will looks him in the eye when he lowers their hands again. “Says the guy who kills and eats people,” he states dryly. He means it to be an accusation, but he doesn’t seem to have it in him, although he musters the strength to add, “In more ways than one.”

Hannibal merely smiles, almost patronizing, like someone watching a child perform and finding it terribly useless but cute. “You saw into the mind of the boy in the woods,” Hannibal reminds him, and Will swallows and looks away, “Was I unnecessarily cruel to him?”

Will’s gaze snaps back to him and he glares, jealousy setting his teeth on edge. It’s an absurd emotion to feel over a dead man while he lays warm and comfortable in Hannibal’s bed. Hannibal, whose amused little smile has grown into something far wider, and far more dangerous, and abruptly Will recalls why—he’s a passenger, now, along for the wild ride Will has been on over the past twenty-four or so hours.

Will scowls in the face of Hannibal’s obvious delight. “This is total bullshit, you know,” Will tells him, freeing his hand from Hannibal’s so that he can poke him in the center of his bare chest. “I drink from you and you get the inside scoop,” he says morosely, flattening his hand against Hannibal’s chest before curling his fingers in the hair there, giving it a sharp tug, “How come it doesn’t work both ways?”

Hannibal makes a low sound in his throat at the abuse he clearly enjoys, and grasps Will’s hand again, pulling it towards his lips. “That’s not how it works, I’m afraid,” he says, and presses his teeth to the saddle of Will’s hand between his thumb and forefinger. “We can hardly be bound in such a way to everyone we feed on,” he points out, and Will supposes that makes sense. He knows there’s more, though, and arches a brow and waits. Hannibal seems to realize he won’t be getting off that easy, and sighs fondly through his nose. “If we were to exchange blood at the same time,” he says, his eyes darkening and lowering to Will’s throat, and Will doesn’t need to be able to feel him in his blood or an overabundance of empathy to see the longing in his gaze for more, “You would be able to feel me, and I you, for some time. If we were to exchange blood three times, our bond would be permanent.”

Will blinks in surprise at this information. “Permanent?” he repeats, as Hannibal presses his lips against his palm.

Hannibal smiles, slow and lazy. “Until death do us part,” he drawls, setting his human teeth gently in the heel of his palm.

“ _My_ death, you mean,” Will supposes, watches as Hannibal shrugs one bare shoulder more elegantly than should be possible, and follows the motion to turn onto his side so that they are facing each other, Will’s head half on his extended arm and half on the pillow behind him. Underneath the covers, Will reaches out tentatively and settles his hand on Hannibal’s waist, rubbing a slow circle against his cool skin with his thumb until it stops when something else occurs to him. “Three times, huh?” he asks, arching a brow, “Who comes up with this shit?”

Hannibal mirrors the expression with a wry smile. “There is magic in our blood,” he explains, his voice low and soft and melodic, “Magic that animates us when we are long since dead. No different, in essence, than your own magic that brings the dead back to life, even if only for a few moments.”

Will wrinkles his nose. “What I do...it’s not...” he argues, before finishing lamely, “...Magic.”

“Is it not?” Hannibal replies lightly, reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind Will’s ear. His fingers linger there, then his eyes drop to follow them as they trail down the column of his throat and over the curve of his shoulder, the ghost of a touch continuing down his bicep to the crook of his elbow. Will shivers, and wonders again how it’s possible that his dick is considering getting hard yet again. “I could feel you there, inside of me,” he whispers, and yep, Will is definitely getting hard again at the insinuation poorly hidden within Hannibal’s words, rolling off his tongue in that accent like a caress. Will’s hand tightens in the slight curve of Hannibal’s hip reflexively, pulling them fractionally closer. “In the kitchen,” he continues, his eyes downcast to watch as his fingers reverse, following their own trail back up his arm, “I could feel your magic, alongside mine. I have never felt anything like it before. You are a singular creature, Will, the likes of which I have never known, not in all of my years.”

“What did it feel like?” Will murmurs, watching Hannibal’s face closely while his gaze is still lowered, studying how obscenely long his fair lashes are, the fan of which nearly brushing the highest point of his cheekbones, the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepen when he sometimes smiles at Will with such tenderness that he aches with the weight of it, of what it means that he inspires it.

Hannibal takes a moment to think, his lips parting as he breathes in—scenting them, as they lie together, Will realizes—and in doing so, shows off the points of his somewhat crooked teeth, sharp even without his fangs present. His tongue touches against a canine, and Will wants to taste it again, his tongue, his mouth, much more than that. “It felt like being exposed, stripped beyond naked, until you could see into the very core of me,” Hannibal says finally, the arm around Will tightening to pull him closer, and he goes, his eyes still on Hannibal’s face as he shuffles closer until their bodies are pressed together under the silky sheets, Hannibal’s skin blissfully cool against Will’s own heated flesh. Will can feel the insistent press of Hannibal’s cock, hard against his hip. His voice sounds impossibly deeper, rougher, accent thickening to the point that his words slur together when he adds, “I have spent over a thousand years behind a veil, beautiful boy, and how effortlessly you have lifted it.”

Will swallows thickly, thinks to argue that he is hardly a boy, but the words _over a thousand years_ are ringing in his ears too loudly to make that protest remotely feasible. Even if they weren’t, Hannibal’s hand is moving, fingers trailing down over his chest, over a nipple to map the curve of his ribs, and then Will can’t think much of anything at all besides the way his skin prickles beneath his touch, how feverish his skin feels beneath the cool press of Hannibal’s palm when it slides down his side and to his hip. He wets his lips, takes in a ragged breath, and manages to ask in a whisper, “And how did that feel? When my magic met your own, beyond the veil?”

Hannibal’s eyes are blazing, dark and glittering, his fingers tightening on his hip to press them together, their cocks aligning and pressing together with rough, dry friction that sends a frisson up Will’s spine and heat flaring through his belly. “It felt like stars aligning,” Hannibal whispers roughly, both hands pulling and pressing now as he leans over Will, pressing him back into the mattress. He’s heavy, and Will can feel the barely restrained strength in him as he stares up at Hannibal with wide eyes, drinking him in. “Like broken fault lines slamming into place,” Hannibal goes on, his hand sliding over Will’s flank, his fingers sinking into the meat of Will’s ass, urging him to arch up against him. And he does, surging up to catch Hannibal’s lips with his own as their bodies move together, legs twining beneath the sheets, chasing the taste of each other with their tongues.

Hannibal’s arm is braced on the bed, and his fingers slide through Will’s hair, curling there and holding him still as he breaks their kiss long enough to murmur against his lips, “It felt as though, together, we were skimming the surface of something abysmal and unfathomable, something so extraordinary and so destructive...something that could change the world or end it altogether.”

“Yes,” Will whispers, because he feels it too, even now; this thing between them that seems as immense and vast as the oceans, and as prophetical and foreboding as the receding of the tides before a tsunami hits.

Perhaps the universe should have kept them apart, but instead it brought them together, and Will can’t help but think that the results might be nothing short of apocalyptic, cataclysmic.

When Hannibal kisses him again, Will decides he really doesn’t give a shit.

His thighs part to accept him when Hannibal settles over him, his hands finding the broad expanse of Hannibal’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscles that shift under his cool skin. Hannibal shivers as Will’s hands slide down his spine, and when his hands settle on his backside and _pull_ , a feral sound breaks loose from somewhere deep within the vampire’s chest. “ _Will_ ,” he groans as his cock slots alongside Will’s, and Will’s hands guide him to rut there until they’re both gasping against each others mouths, hands clinging.

“Hannibal,” Will moans when Hannibal breaks their kiss, but only to lower his head to run his tongue down his throat. “I need—” he pants out, voice shattering when Hannibal scrapes razor-sharp fangs against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, against the healed place where he drank from him.

“Tell me,” Hannibal whispers, his voice so rough he doesn’t sound human anymore, and it sends a thrill through Will that settles like something molten in his belly, “Tell me, my darling, and you shall have it.”

Will swallows hard, meets Hannibal’s gaze when he glances up at him, his eyes dark and glittering covetously. He feels suddenly tongue-tied, wanting too many things at once: to have Hannibal inside him, to be the one inside _him_ , his mouth, his hands, his cock.

His _teeth_.

He opens his mouth to let out some garbled plea for all of the above, in that order, out of order, he couldn’t give a fuck less if he tried. But before he can say anything, he’s interrupted by the phone on the bedside table giving a shrill ring, before it begins to vibrate, dancing around on the polished wooden surface.

He holds Hannibal’s eyes until it stops, before it promptly starts again, and they both look over at the offending device as one. Hannibal shifts and stretches to reach for it, hands it to Will, who looks at the thing laying in his palm like it’s something foreign to him, not his own cellphone, like the name flashing in bold letters isn’t familiar to him.

He glances at Hannibal, still on top of him, and the vampire nods, encouraging him to answer. His thumb trembles from fear of what the call is about, from the adrenaline built up in his bloodstream, from both, as he slides it across the screen to take the call and presses it to his ear.

“Jack?” he says, and his voice sounds strained to his own ears. His heart is pounding frantically in his chest, afraid that somehow the agent on the other end of the line knows just how much has changed since he last saw him.

“Will!” Jack exclaims, his voice sounding tinny through the little speaker, “Where the hell have you been all day?” Will’s eyes dart up to Hannibal, who bares his sharp fangs in a wide smile, damn him, because what the _fuck_ is he going to say? _I found one of your killers, Agent Crawford, and I was just about to fuck him, so do you mind getting to the point so I can get back to it?_ Will is thankfully saved from saying anything at all, though, as Jack steamrolls on, “Are you feeling back up to snuff? Katz said you were looking a little green around the gills when you left the lab yesterday morning, and when I spoke to Doctor Lecter last night, he said you were under the weather.”

Will glares at Hannibal, who can no doubt hear both sides of the conversation perfectly, and is suddenly looking like the cat who got the canary. He shifts above him, as if in reminder of their current situation, and Will’s breath catches. He entertains the idea, briefly, of telling Jack he’s definitely under _something_ , but it sure as hell ain’t the weather.

“I’m...” he starts, swallows around the lump in his throat, “I’m fine, Jack. Did you need something?”

If Jack is put off by Will’s less than stellar phone etiquette, he doesn’t bother commenting. “I do, as a matter of fact,” Jack’s voice says through the phone, “There’s another body.”

Will’s jaw works for a moment, looking up at Hannibal. He doesn’t look particularly guilty, but even if he’s the one that put the body there, Will doesn’t suppose he would feel any guilt about it. He heaves a great sigh at the impossibly fucked up situation he’s gotten himself into. “Why do you even want me there?” he asks Jack, removing one hand from where he realizes abruptly it has a death grip on Hannibal’s upper arm to press his thumb and forefinger into his eyes tiredly, “You haven’t believed me so far, why should this one be any different?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, before Jack says, “This one is different, Will. I need you to come take a look.” He quickly rattles off an address, and says just before hanging up, “Oh, and Will? Call Doctor Lecter and see if he’ll come with you. I have a feeling you’re going to need him.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal nods, just once, still looking ahead as he continues to drive. “I started counting twelve-hundred years ago,” he says, as if this isn’t a big fucking deal, and Will tries and fails not to gape at him as he adds, “Around the time that the drag of time started to become terribly dull.”
> 
> Will blinks, wide-eyed, at Hannibal’s impossibly noble profile. “You’ve been bored for _twelve-hundred years_?” he asks, aghast.
> 
> Hannibal smirks and takes his eyes off the road, fixing Will with a dark look that lasts too long to be entirely safe, before looking back at the road and replying lightly, “I am most certainly not bored anymore.”
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will and Hannibal go for a drive, Hannibal meets an old friend, and Will meets his own reflection.

Will manages to extricate himself from the bed and Hannibal’s arms, but not without a look from the other man that, without saying a word, assures him they’d be picking up where they left off as soon as they’re able. It’s not until he’s out from under the covers and the chilled air hits his skin that he registers that he’s quite naked, and that the old, ratty clothes he pulled on when heading to Hannibal’s house are strewn over the floor and covered with blood.

Hannibal is still laying on the bed where he had dropped into a graceful sprawl when Will pushed him off of him, one hand pillowed behind his head. His eyes are hooded, his lips curled up at the corners, and he’s clearly enjoying the view as Will stands there, frozen in the middle of the bedroom like an idiot. Will would feel compelled to cover himself, if he wasn’t experiencing actually seeing Hannibal naked for the first time at the moment, having so far been so pressed up too tightly against him to get a good look.

He’s looking now, though. And it is a _sight_.

Even lounging there in an artful drape, exposed in a way that would make most people at least a little self-conscious, he still looks exactly like what he is—at rest, but still lethal, like a sheathed sword. Hannibal is all pale, almost glowing golden skin furred with darker hair, long limbs thickened with well-honed muscles; ruddy, thick uncut cock still lying heavy and rather intimidating, if Will is being honest with himself, against his hip. Will’s had enough one night stands to gather that he himself is endowed well enough, but good _lord_.

Mouth practically watering, he manages to move his eyes back to Hannibal’s face, exotic and so gorgeous it makes Will’s chest ache, and notices the amusement sparkling in his dark eyes and the smug smile on his face.

“Shut up,” Will snipes automatically, and presses the heel of his palm against his aching dick, before he accuses, “You’re staring, too.”

“How could I not?” Hannibal asks, and continues to do so as he adds softly, “You are breathtaking, Will.”

Will chuffs bashfully and looks away. “You don’t even have breath to take away in the first place,” he tries to deflect, but he hardly finishes the sentence before Hannibal is suddenly there right in front of him, having launched himself up off the bed and across the room so quickly Will’s eyes aren’t capable of even clocking the movement; he’s just suddenly there, body pressed in a long, cool line against Will’s front, fingers wrenching his face up, and his mouth sealed to Will’s in a searing kiss.

By the time he pulls away, Will is gasping—from the kiss, from the vampire scaring him half to death by practically materializing before him, it hardly matters. “I shall endeavor to steal yours twice as often to make up for it, then,” he murmurs with an easy smile, pressing his lips to Will’s again.

Will allows it, and almost gets caught up in the leisurely slide of lips and tongue before he wrestles back some modicum of control over himself and pulls back. “You think you’re so fucking smooth,” he grumbles as Hannibal growls and chases after his retreating lips, even though he knows it’s obvious from his dopey grin how much he’s affected, and says as he pushes him away again, “Get dressed.” It’s then that he remembers the dilemma he was so skillfully distracted from, and frowns as he adds, “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Hannibal smiles enigmatically, kisses Will’s forehead and grips him by his shoulders to turn him away, and sends him off with a gentle shove and a less than gentle slap on his bare behind. “Bottom drawer,” he says, before he disappears into his closet.

Will shakes off his indignation at the treatment and goes to do as he’s told.

“What the fuck,” he breathes out a moment later, before he raises his voice to something louder and yells, “What the _fuck_. Hannibal!”

Hannibal’s voice drifts back from the closet as Will paws through the contents of the bottom drawer of his bureau. “I thought you might need them,” he calls, as Will’s hands pluck out several pairs of slacks, some jeans that probably cost more than a month’s rent, a few shirts that are so soft he could die, undershirts, socks, _underwear,_ all in his size. He’s still rifling through the drawer when Hannibal appears from the closet, already dressed so quickly it boggles Will’s mind and wearing one of his suits of armor—this one cream with red checks. He looks smug, still, and unapologetic in the face of Will’s irritation as he adds innocently, “It would appear I was right.”

Will knows when he’s been beat, but that doesn’t stop him from snatching out a pair of boxers—made of something obscenely soft but not silk or something like he would expect, at least—and jamming his legs into them with more force than is strictly necessary. “That’s beside the point,” he says, pulling them up over his thighs, “You can’t just—oh my _god_ , what are these even made out of?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, instead joining him by the bureau and running a finger over his skin just above the waistband. Even that bare touch makes Will shiver and wonder if he’s ever going to be _not_ hard again. “You deserve finer things than you give yourself, Will,” Hannibal says, staring into his eyes, before bending down to fish out a pair of jeans and a dark, long-sleeved shirt which Will discovers is nearly as soft as the boxers when he hands them over.

It touches a nerve, one that runs deep through his shitty apartment and his old, worn out clothes and his beat up station wagon that’s held together by rust and spite alone, back in time to a series of squalid rent-by-the-week lodgings and empty cabinets and an even emptier belly. Will bristles without really meaning to, and that feeling mixed with arousal is a strange combination indeed. “My _things_ are fine enough,” he replies testily, pulling on the jeans and zipping up the fly and buttoning the button so roughly he’s surprised they survive. They fit him like they were made for him—he wouldn’t be terribly surprised to find out they were. He half-wonders if Hannibal doesn’t have a tailor on staff, stashed somewhere in his sprawling home, assaulting Will with a measuring tape in his sleep at Hannibal’s behest.

Will is peeved enough to think that seems like something a snooty, overbearing rich person would do. His lips pull back to bare his teeth, but Hannibal merely smiles indulgently and brushes his knuckles against Will’s cheek. “Of course they are,” he replies sweetly, and Will very nearly rolls his eyes, wondering if the man knows—and if he does, if he cares—how condescending he often sounds. Probably not. “At any rate,” Hannibal is saying as he makes his way towards the bedroom door, “Your fine _things_ are not here, now, so I suppose you will have to find it within yourself to make do. I will meet you downstairs.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Will standing there feeling both indignant and ungrateful in equal measure.

Will finishes getting dressed, steps into the bathroom to take a look at himself. He doesn’t, he assures himself, look like he was just fucking his friend/vampire/psychiatrist, if one doesn’t count the smear of blood on his throat or the abused red color of his lips, or what could only be described as a case of exceptionally wild sex hair. He bangs on the faucet above the stupid fancy vessel sink and runs some cold water to splash over his face, scrubbing away the blood on his throat with his fingers. He runs a wet hand through his unruly hair, trying his best to tame it.

He fails, and walks downstairs in defeat.

The clothes are so warm and comfortable it’s nearly obscene, and as he descends the stairs he can’t help but imagine Hannibal picking them out for him with obvious concessions to Will’s preferences in mind. It is yet another show of kindness made without any expectation of restitution, and although his knee-jerk reaction was to bristle with anger, being cared for in such a way causes something soft and warm to settle in the center of his chest.

He finds Hannibal at the front door, putting on his overcoat. Will walks towards him and doesn’t stop until his face is pressed into Hannibal’s broad chest, and Will sighs against the fine fabrics when Hannibal wraps his arms around him. “I’m sorry,” he says, nose smashed against Hannibal’s lapel, lips brushing the silk of an exceptionally loudly-patterned paisley tie as they move to admit softly, “A requirement of my upbringing was to pretend to be too proud for charity.”

He can feel Hannibal’s lips press against his damp hair curling at his temple. “I will not do you the disservice of promising I won’t do it again,” he says. Will can feel his voice rumbling through his chest, silent of breath and heartbeat as it is, and hear the smile in it when he adds, “Often, and as regularly as I can get away with.”

Will grins helplessly and wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist over all the layers he puts between himself and the world, knowing now what it feels like to touch his bare skin. “I wouldn’t believe you if you did,” he answers, and sighs again. “My upbringing, such as it was, also demands I be polite and say thank you,” he offers.

He can feel Hannibal’s amused huff of breath stirring his hair. “But you are not often polite,” he points out, “I’m afraid I rather like that about you.”

Will hides another smile against Hannibal’s chest. They stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other in the foyer, while Will tries to remember the last time he’s been hugged. Maybe not even since he was small, when his father was still alive and somewhat sober and hadn’t turned cold yet from heartbreak. He wishes they could stay just like this, or move themselves back to Hannibal’s bed, but he knows they cannot.

He lifts his head, whispers, “Kiss me,” and Hannibal does.

*

It’s almost two in the morning, according to the clock on the dashboard. Hannibal puts the address Jack Crawford gave them in the GPS once they’re tucked inside the Bentley, warmth blowing out of the vents and heating the seats beneath them, both a product of Will lamenting Baltimore’s awful weather.

“Extremes of temperature do not truly trouble me,” Hannibal answers, when Will asks him if the cold bothers him. He’s silent for a moment as he puts the car in reverse and backs down his driveway, adding quietly once they’re on the road, “I do not particularly enjoy snow, however.”

Will swallows, remembering the bitter cold he felt in Hannibal’s mind, the way the snow was thick underfoot in the endless frozen forest where he can only assume whatever happened to Hannibal... _happened_. He reaches over without thinking, resting his hand on Hannibal’s thigh, and doesn’t look when he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him.

“Tell me more about Mason,” he says instead, watching the mansions surrounding Hannibal’s own roll by.

“Very well,” Hannibal replies, purses his lips for a moment in thought. No doubt even he is overwhelmed with the idea of where to begin, with what to start. “I do not know his exact age, but he is very old,” he settles on eventually.

Will rolls his eyes, turning his head where it rests on the headrest to watch the way the streetlamps illuminate Hannibal’s profile, eyes lingering on the shape of his nose, the plush curve of his upper lip. “I hate to break it to you,” he says, even though his thoughts are lingering on how honestly beautiful he is and contemplating how to work up the courage to tell him so, “But you’re very old, too.”

Hannibal sniffs as if he’s offended, but much to Will’s delight, he sees the creases form in the corners of his eyes that gives his amusement away. The sight makes his entire body react in a way he’s never had cause to experience: a lightness in his belly, a tightness in his chest—and he knows well enough there would be tightness in his already skin-tight jeans, too, if he let his thoughts linger. “Be that as it may,” Hannibal says as he turns when the woman’s voice through the stereo speakers instructs him to, for once saving him from the spiral of the thoughts that have now become rote, “Mason is far older than I am. I believe he was at least a thousand years old when we met...perhaps two.”

Will blinks at that, trying to do the math in his head and failing, since he’s missing half of the equation. And although he wants to know every detail of how they _met_ , he knows now isn’t the time, when there are more pressing questions at hand. “At _least_?” he asks instead. His voice comes out a little squeakier than he would like, but Hannibal graciously ignores it.

Hannibal nods, his tongue darting out to touch his top lip, like he knows Will is staring at it. He probably does, Will concedes. “Time was not observed in the same manner then as you have known it in your lifetime,” he explains, gloved hands flexing on the steering wheel, “I do not know the year I was born, nor do I have any clear understanding of how many decades I walked the earth as a human before my death, or how many years passed between the end of my human life and when I started counting the passage of time.”

Will takes this in, tries to imagine it, but even with his boundless imagination he cannot. “So, you’re _more_ than a thousand years old?” he asks, a little breathless at the thought, skating over his half-way decent knowledge of history and finding himself overwhelmed by the mere _idea_ of what Hannibal has seen and experienced in his long life.

Hannibal nods, just once, still looking ahead as he continues to drive. “I started counting twelve-hundred years ago,” he says, as if this isn’t a big fucking deal, and Will tries and fails not to gape at him as he adds, “Around the time that the drag of time started to become terribly dull.”

Will blinks, wide-eyed, at Hannibal’s impossibly noble profile. “You’ve been bored for _twelve-hundred years_?” he asks, aghast.

Hannibal smirks and takes his eyes off the road, fixing Will with a dark look that lasts too long to be entirely safe, before looking back at the road and replying lightly, “I am most certainly not bored anymore.”

Will tries to digest this, too, and fails miserably, shakes his head to try to get rid of the shock. “Mason,” he blurts out after a moment, and Hannibal shoots him a look, forcing him to use his words enough to manage to say, “You were going to tell me more about Mason.”

Hannibal is silent for a moment. “I am afraid you think I know more about him than I do,” he admits, “In the grand scheme of things, I truly only knew him briefly.”

Will snorts a laugh. “How brief is _brief_ to you?” he asks.

“Only three, perhaps four decades at most,” Hannibal replies with a graceful hitch of one broad shoulder beneath layers of overpriced linen and wool.

“ _Only_ ,” Will repeats, suddenly very aware of how small and _brief_ he is himself. His entire life, to Hannibal, has been brief. The time they’ve known each other, so profound to Will already, couldn’t seem more than a fraction of a heartbeat.

He doesn’t realize that the thought has sent his mind careening until a cool hand comes to rest atop his own on Hannibal’s thigh, grounding him. He flips his hand over, palm up, so that they can lace their fingers together. They ride for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the lady giving them directions in her robotic posh accent, before Hannibal says gently into the quiet, “I was human, for the entirety of that time.”

His soft words might as well have been a gunshot in the enclosed space. Will swallows hard against the wave of nausea he feels before managing to ask, “Were you—”

He doesn’t know how to finish his question, and knows even less if he truly wants the answer.

Friends? Lovers?

_Like us?_

“No,” Hannibal answers immediately, and Will can feel the vehemence behind it like an avalanche, and Hannibal’s disgust at the very thought is so palpable in the confines of the car Will can practically taste it. There are a thousand unspoken things crammed into that single word, _no_ , and the implications therein makes Will feel even worse.

He nods, accepting Hannibal’s answer, and tightens his grip on his hand. Hannibal holds him back, and Will desperately wishes they were still in bed, dreads knowing more, dreads the crime scene they’re barreling towards, just... _dreads_. They lapse back into silence, a silence that is nowhere near as comfortable as Will has gotten used to in Hannibal’s presence.

Maybe seconds, maybe hours later of driving through increasingly unsavory neighborhoods, Will spots flashing lights in the distance. It’s Hannibal’s turn to hold Will’s hand tighter as he stiffens the closer they come, gone nearly rigid by the time Hannibal pulls his car alongside a line of police cruisers, first responders, the nondescript black SUVs belonging to the FBI agents, and a coroner’s van, packed like sardines on an empty side street.

The lights are flashing in an alleyway between two buildings, casting the concrete walls in bright shades of red and blue and white in turn. The scene isn’t what Will has come to expect when Jack calls upon him, having so far found himself tromping around in the woods and in muddy fields. This time, the body has been found somewhere urban. Will looks to the GPS, eyes following the little gray lines marking the streets, and realizes with a start that they’re parked hardly a few blocks away from his own humble abode.

He knows he has to ask, even though he doesn’t want to. He waits until Hannibal turns off the car and turns to look at him. “You didn’t do this, did you?” he asks thinly.

Hannibal, for the first time since they left the house, cracks a smile. “No, Will,” he says, almost chiding, as if Will is crazy to even suggest such a thing, as if Will hasn’t already once been led blind into one of his own crime scenes, “You have kept me quite busy since last night, if you will recall.”

Will _does_ recall, thank you very much, being torn open and waking up put back together and everything that has transpired afterward. But that’s not _all_ he recalls. “What about the lungs?” he asks, and then gets more specific because if Hannibal asks ‘what lungs?’ with that innocent look of his, Will is going to punch him, and he knows if he does he’s going to hurt himself on those cheekbones a lot more than it hurts Hannibal in return. “The lungs in your kitchen tonight,” he says, turning to fix Hannibal with a hard stare, “Who do— _did—_ they belong to?”

If Hannibal minds confessing to murder with intent to cannibalize a stone’s throw away from Baltimore’s finest, he doesn’t show it in the least. “A catcaller,” he replies, matter-of-fact, tilting his chin up slightly, “Who I witnessed shouting obscenities at group of lovely young women outside of the opera house. He was very impolite.”

Will blinks. “You killed someone because they were _impolite?”_ he asks, incredulous, “You literally just told me you liked that _I_ am impolite.”

“I _do_ like that about you,” Hannibal replies, eyes dancing, “I did not, however, like that about this gentleman.”

Will glances away, sees Jack at a distance marching towards them, his face even more grim than usual, which is quite a feat considering. He turns his gaze back to Hannibal, runs a palm over his rough stubble in exasperation, and states dryly, “So you were going to eat him.”

“Yes,” Hannibal answers, and he’s _really_ smiling now. He’s fucking gorgeous, and Will really wants to hit him, especially when he goes on to say brightly, “I was planning to make Bopis for you. It’s Filipino.”

“Oh, you fucker,” Will says, and god help him, he’s being forced to try his best not to laugh. This is who he’s gone and fallen in love with, and maybe the sooner he accepts that the better. But... “Just so I’m clear,” he asks, “You’re not planning to eat _me_ for being impolite, are you? Because that’s not something I’ve been able to control, historically speaking.”

Hannibal’s smile turns into something more devilish and definitely more fatal, but no less charming for it. “Not in the literal sense,” he purrs, looking Will over salaciously, lingering on his lips as he adds in his frankly obscene velvety voice, “But if Agent Crawford hadn’t interrupted us...”

“Oh look, here’s Jack now,” Will interrupts, actually relieved for once to see the agent’s scowling face as he comes close enough to rap his knuckles on the driver’s side window, since Will is not terribly keen on getting an erection at a crime scene.

 _Again_.

Hannibal doesn’t look pleased at the interruption, and looks even less pleased that the man has dared to touch his pristine car. Will wonders if he finds _that_ impolite. With one last lingering, searing look at Will, he unbuckles his seat belt and climbs out of the car and into the frigid night air.

Will does the same, but without the easy grace with which Hannibal folds his long limbs out of the vehicle, and instead more or less scrambles to his feet and rounds the car to join him, just as Jack is greeting him.

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack is saying, while shaking Hannibal’s hand much more vigorously than is even remotely necessary, “Thank you for coming with him.” Will bites his lip to keep himself from smirking. _If you only knew, Jack_. “Ah, and Will,” Jack greets, looking Will over from head to toe in a scrutinizing manner, and clearly not liking what he sees as much as Hannibal obviously did when he did the same a few seconds before, “You’re looking...healthier than the last time I saw you.”

Will’s lips twitch downwards, at first assuming Jack is referring to his nicer clothes, then remembers how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed his reflection was in the mirror when he awoke earlier that day in his apartment, despite his recent injuries. He can’t very well tell Jack Crawford that it’s the result of a hefty dose of vampire blood, so he settles on a half-truth. “I managed to get some rest while I was recuperating,” he tells him, his gaze turning downward to stare at the scuffed toes of his boots. They look, he realizes, completely out of place now with the finer things Hannibal has decked him out in, despite having been up until that moment one of the newer, nicer articles of clothing he owned.

“Good to hear,” Jack replies and straightens, looking grimly back towards where a line of uniformed officers are loitering in the mouth of the alley, just on the edge of the floodlights someone has set up to illuminate the crime scene. “You might not be getting sleep for a while after you see this one.”

“Fantastic,” Will grouses, his eyes rising to search what little of the scene he can see. He spots Zeller and Price easily, heads together as they discuss—or argue over, most likely—something animatedly. There’s an unfamiliar figure conversing with Beverly; a woman, small in stature enough that she’s forced to look up to meet Beverly’s eyes despite her high heels adding a few inches to her height.

Jack follows Will’s gaze, and clears his throat. “Come with me,” he says, already heading off towards the others, “There’s someone I’d like both of you to meet.” Will chances a glance towards Hannibal when Jack turns his back, and finds his face has reassembled its mask of polite curiosity somewhere between there and the warmth of his car’s interior where they were alone and he was looking at Will like he was about to devour him, and not in the cannibalistic way.

The woman turns as they approach, her dark cascade of curls flowing around her lovely face with the movement, and Will is stuck between realizing how shockingly pretty he finds her to be and experiencing a mild stab of jealousy in the pit of his stomach when her expression lights up upon spotting the vampire at his side. “Hannibal!” she calls with a grin, her softly patterned dress swishing around her bare thighs and the heels of her shoes clicking on the broken pavement with each quick step she takes to reach them.

“I take it you two know each other?” Will asks lowly as she approaches, proud of how level he manages to keep his voice.

Hannibal is still smiling at her, actually looking distinctly pleased to see her. “Hello, Alana,” he greets with a congenial smile and a dip of his head that somehow has the same effect of a regal bow, then explains for Will and Jack’s sake, “I had the great pleasure of mentoring Doctor Bloom during her residency.”

Will is struck again with the knowledge that Hannibal has an entire life outside of their brief acquaintance that he really knows nothing about. He watches as Doctor Bloom places her small hand daintily in Hannibal’s, and allows him to reel her in to do the whole air kiss thing Will has always found uppity and ridiculous. First one cheek, and then the other, but Will doesn’t miss the way they suddenly both freeze there for what couldn’t be more than a split second.

Will raises a brow. Hannibal takes a breath. Will has seen it before, had it done to _him..._ Hannibal is scenting her, even though Will can’t figure out for the life of him why. To Jack or any other onlooker, there wouldn’t be a discernible change, but the way Hannibal’s dark gaze suddenly sharpens and grows claws when he pulls back enough to look down at her is as evident to Will as if the man had screeched and flown off into the night like a deranged bat.

Something has shifted in Doctor Bloom as well, and when she pulls her hand away and settles back on her heels, she’s as white as a sheet, and she swallows hard. “It’s been a while,” she says to Hannibal, and the sentiment seems more meaningful than the sum of the innocuous words.

Hannibal is still looking at her strangely, although it’s only in his eyes, his pleased expression has yet to change. “Indeed, it has,” he agrees. Will looks between them and reads between the lines, and comes to the conclusion that Doctor Bloom must be a vampire too, and nearly rolls his eyes out of his head at the thought of not one but _two_ vampires attending a crime scene that has no doubt been created by a third. But then Hannibal is saying politely, “Doctor Bloom, may I introduce my dear friend, Will?”

Her eyes are shockingly blue when they turn on Will. Unnaturally so. Doctor Bloom extends her hand for Will to shake, which he does, finding it to be quite hot against his palm despite how cold it is outside, and although she is admittedly rather pale of skin, Will notices that there’s a—wait for it— _bloom_ on her cheeks that’s not from makeup, but rather from warm blood flowing just beneath her skin.

Not a vampire, then. Will reflects momentarily on how rarely he knows what the fuck is going on these days.

His aforementioned upbringing kicks in belatedly, and he manages to smile. “Nice to meet you, Doctor—”

“Alana, please,” she interrupts, but manages to do so politely. No wonder Hannibal likes her.

“Alana,” Will repeats, casting a glance Hannibal’s way when their hands part and drop. Hannibal is watching with calculating eyes. Will still feels the warmth of Alana’s hand lingering against his palm, and he finds himself fighting the urge to look down at his hand as if there’s some answer there to be had.

He doesn’t get the chance, as he is suddenly poked sharply in his shoulder, which startles the shit out of him. “Hey, bud,” Beverly says, giving him a wide grin when he turns to blink at her in surprise, “You’re looking better.” She turns her smile on Hannibal and adds in an over-the-top flirtatious manner, “And Doctor Lecter...you’re _always_ looking good.”

Hannibal dips his head to accept the praise with a gracious smile. “Always a pleasure to see you, Miss Katz,” he replies, ever the perfect gentleman.

Beverly’s hand has flattened on his shoulder, and Will fights the urge to shrug it off, reminded that despite the way he’s spent the last few hours, he _really_ doesn’t like being touched. “It would have been _great_ to see you guys yesterday,” she points out. “We’re released the bodies this morning, and Jack wanted y’all to take another look before they went,” she goes on, giving Will’s shoulder a jostle, “But this guy had to go and get sick, huh? And _you_ ,” she says to Hannibal, grinning crookedly, “Did you have a hot date or something?”

Will gulps so loudly he’s surprised everyone in the vicinity doesn’t hear it and turn to look, but Hannibal is, of course, completely unfazed. “As I told Jack last night when he phoned,” he answers, “I had an emergency that kept me away.”

 _Yeah_ , Will thinks, _The near-death experience of your ‘dear friend’._ He only just keeps himself from scoffing out loud at being labeled as such, considering, but then he makes the mistake of wondering what he _is_ to him, if not just a dear friend, and gets lost for a moment when it proves too much to think about.

Jack is talking, and Will tunes back in just in time to hear him say, “...Doctor Bloom has been a consultant for some time, so I called her in. She interviewed some family members...”

Will tunes him right back out, recalling instead Hannibal mentioning that there were others in the psychiatric community that worked occasionally for the FBI, and Will remembers his own conclusion that it was luck of the draw that Jack had assigned Will to Hannibal. Remembers how Hannibal had supposed that it was because Jack knew they would be a good match.

Will supposes that some rational part of him should wish he was assigned instead to Alana, who seems so soft and kind. But one look at Hannibal, who is watching him with dark, narrowed eyes as if he knows exactly where Will’s mind has wandered, squashes the thought completely.

They _are_ a good match, rather he likes it or not.

The others are still talking, but Hannibal is staring right at him. One side of his mouth curls up into the barest of smiles, and Will can’t help but smile back.

Because god help him, he more than just _likes_ it. He _loves_ it.

“ _Will_.”

Will blinks, tears his eyes away from Hannibal, whose dark eyes have caught the moonlight just enough to sparkle with amusement, to look at Jack and belatedly realize that it’s not the first time the agent has said his name. “You need to prepare yourself for this one,” Jack says, looking the opposite of amused himself.

“How bad can it be?” Will asks, although he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Jack takes a breath. “It’s not that it’s any worse than the others...” he starts, looking helplessly at Alana, who is looking at Will like she pities him, which grates on Will’s ragged nerves. “This one is different,” he settles on finally.

“Different,” Will echoes, and does his best not to look in Hannibal’s direction. The last scene he visited that was _different_ was different because it had been made just for Will by Hannibal’s hand. But Hannibal had assured him this wasn’t his doing, and although it might make him absolutely insane for doing so, considering, Will believes him.

Jack gestures towards the crime scene. Will looks at Hannibal, standing there with his hands in his pockets, waiting on Will’s cue. Everyone else but he and Alana are hunched into their jackets against the cold, and Hannibal is the only one whose breath doesn’t cloud around him. Even surrounded by detectives of different calibers, no one seems to notice this oddity. But then again, neither did he, until he knew what he was looking for.

Will nods and heads towards the alley, with his undead _dear friend_ falling into step at his side.

They have to wade upstream through the incoming flood of cops and emergency personnel moving in the opposite direction when Jack bellows for them to clear the scene, and although Will has to fight his way through and gets bumped in the shoulder more than once, they practically part around Hannibal like he’s a rock in the middle of the river. Instinctive, perhaps, Will reasons; some primordial impulse written in the most primitive parts of their prey-animal brains warning them to keep their heads down and get the fuck out of the way when a predator is in their midst.

Will wonders, not for the first time, just what exactly is wrong with  _his_ instincts.

As suddenly as the herd converged upon them, they are gone, leaving Will and Hannibal alone in the alley. Alone, except for the pair of brown boots he can see sticking out from behind a dumpster, marked in colorful graffiti. Will steels himself, gives Hannibal a look to stay him, then picks his way through the scattered trash and other debris in the alley around the hulking metal container.

The body is revealed to him in stages as he goes. First, the worn blue jeans—or they were blue, they’re red now with blood—that cover the legs that are attached to the boots. Then, the beginnings of a faded plaid button-down shirt, laying in tatters amongst the ruin of the man’s chest.

He raises his eyes to the victim’s face, and even though he knows already what he will see before he sees it, he’s woefully unprepared. Dark, curly brown hair. A pitiable attempt at a beard. Glasses, knocked askew over sightless blue eyes that seem to be staring right at Will, through him, as if in accusation.

He’s not sure if he actually makes a sound, or if Hannibal just feels the shift in him.

“Will?” he calls, and Will can hear the scuff of his shoes against the asphalt as he rounds the dumpster, “What is it?”

Will turns to meet him just as he appears, and his eyes flicker from Will, to the man who could be his twin, and back again. Will smiles, a tight, pained thing, his lips trembling as he answers.

“It’s me.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has always hated his ability, in the darkest depths of his heart. But somewhere between using it to peer into Hannibal’s mind to see the truth of him and the way the man had described what it felt like to him—his magic—he has started to see it differently, even without realizing it. When he drags his fingers through that dark, still pond tonight, he does so almost lovingly, watching the ripples he causes appear with interest.
> 
> When that dreadful beast springs forth, crashing through the surface with a deafening splash, dripping with Hannibal’s blood, he feels something close to affection for it for the first time in his life.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will gazes into his mirror, and finds a face from Hannibal's past, as well as one from his own.

Hannibal, for all his micro-expressions and carefully schooled reactions, is at the moment very easy to read. Will considers that it’s a pretty good thing that they’re alone, because if anyone else saw him, there would be no question to even the dullest of the dull that the man is something _other_.

He is other, and he is  _furious._

Will remembers his first true glimpse behind the veil, as Hannibal had so eloquently put it, when he had stumbled upon he and Matthew in the stairwell. The way he had felt Hannibal’s rage unfold, revealing something fathomless and blacker than night, the way he had felt the full force of the power he keeps contained and hidden from the world hit him like a tidal wave and then flow through and around him like a sentient thing with reaching fingers and tearing claws.

That primordial part of Will—his lizard brain, which he had just wondered if it were functioning at all—makes itself known, scratching at the inside of Will’s skull and howling with a desperate warning to get the _fuck_ out of dodge. His eyes are drawn to the source of the danger, and Hannibal certainly looks dangerous at the moment; unnaturally still, eyes dark and focused so intently on the body splayed out against the alley wall that it’s a wonder to Will that the dead man doesn’t burst into flames or something equally extreme. His fangs are down, poking out from beneath his upper lip, and he looks positively _wrathful_. For all the proof Will has seen of the vampire’s iron-clad self control, Will worries fiercely that everyone in the vicinity might be collateral damage should it finally snap.

He reaches out and wraps his hand around Hannibal’s wrist, his fingers sliding up under the cuff of his shirt and jacket and coat to find and touch bare skin, only a shade warmer than the cold air around them. Then that sharp gaze snaps to him, and Will is proud of the fact that he doesn’t cower away, because he kind of wants to.

“Will,” he rasps, and even his voice sounds like something monstrous. He’s looking at Will like he’s surprised to find him standing there beside of him, alive and well, instead of cold and lifeless, discarded in the alleyway like the garbage the body is surrounded by.

Will squeezes his wrist in reply, flicks his eyes up to his mouth. “Put those away,” he warns, but his voice is gentle.

Hannibal stares at him in silence for a moment, before he seems to shake himself, and begins to draw his humanity back around him like one of his fine suits, piece by piece. Will watches, morbidly fascinated, as the life returns to Hannibal’s lightless eyes and his fangs disappear with a curl of his lip, leaving behind his fairly normal-looking human teeth.

And then he looks like himself again—and only just in time, as it turns out. “Everything okay back here?” Jack shouts, his booming voice echoing off the walls of the alley, making him sound much closer than he is, and Will flinches and drops his hold on Hannibal’s wrist just as he rounds the dumpster and joins them. He looks between the two of them, and nods at whatever it is he sees on their faces. “I guess you noticed the resemblance, too.”

Will swallows and nods, chances a glance at Hannibal who is still standing close to him. He waits a beat for the other man to speak, having at some point gotten used to him speaking for the both of them, and then belatedly realizes that perhaps he still doesn’t trust his voice. “My apartment is just a few blocks from here,” Will says, to fill the silence.

Jack looks taken aback, and more than a little judgmental. “Nice neighborhood,” he says sarcastically.

Not having a response to that, considering Jack isn’t wrong, Will turns his attention back towards the body. “When did you find him?” he asks, holding out a hand into which Jack deposits a pair of gloves. Will pulls them on, then takes a few steps forward and crouches down just beside the man’s boots.

“One of the workers in the shop here brought out the trash, about an hour after they closed,” he says, indicating the back door to the store in question—a mom and pop kind of one-stop shop, whose name on the sign Will recognizes. He’s been there before, most recently when he ran out of toothpaste earlier in the week and bought it there along with a few other essentials, all marked up to two or three times their retail price in the name of convenience.

“So, around eleven?” he asks, looking back over his shoulder to see Jack’s nod in response. Will supposes around eleven he was getting his rocks off while letting a vampire feed on him. He swallows around the growing lump in his throat.

He makes himself look at the body again. The man’s face is mostly intact, which hasn’t been the case with the others, but his body is more of the same: skin in shreds, fat and muscle rendered to pulp by claws, stark white shards of bones poking out at odd angles, internal organs either eviscerated completely or dragged out of the body cavity, torn to shreds.

Will feels more than a little lightheaded faced with the very clear picture what would have become of him that night in the stairwell, if Hannibal hadn’t intervened. He looks away, pushes himself to his feet, and studies the stuff lying around the body instead for a moment while trying to swallow back his sudden nausea. He can feel Hannibal and Jack watching him, one set of eyes weighing more heavily on the back of his neck than the other, as he toes through the mess. There are hypodermic needles, broken glass, the usual shady back-alley fare. But then there are things that the man must have been carrying when he was attacked. A brown paper bag from the liquor store around the corner, the bottle within broken on impact with the concrete and leaking, making the alley slowly smell of cheap gin as much as death and garbage. A bag bearing the logo of the store he died behind; another bag reeking of greasy Chinese food.

The liquor store. The convenience store. The Happy Panda. All places that Will himself frequents, while looking passably like Will himself.

And Will thought _he_ had terrible luck.

Not that he ever actually wants to wake the dead, but he really, _really_ doesn’t want to wake this guy. He already has a pretty good idea of what he is going to see while reliving the man’s last moments, and a cowardly part of him wants to find a way to avoid it altogether. A selfish part of him knows without having to look any further that it was meant to be _him,_ lying dead and broken and discarded in the alley. Or worse, if Matthew’s ominous warnings are anything to go by—he might not know much about Mason yet, but he can assume being dead would be preferable to being _taken._

That selfish part of him is thankful that it is not him, and it’s this part of him that he’s so ashamed of.

Ashamed enough that Hannibal must feel how wretched he feels through his blood, and he can feel as much as hear Hannibal take a step closer, broken glass crunching under his expensive Italian leather shoes.

He doesn’t turn to look up at him, because he already knows what he’ll see. He knows, in his way, Hannibal is unbearably thankful, too.

The sound of heels clicking on pavement breaks his train of thought, and he looks over his shoulder to watch Alana join them, coming to stand between Hannibal and Jack. Even in her heels she barely comes up to their shoulders, Will notices idly, and where they are both dark in their somber overcoats she is a splash of color with the bright red flowers on her dress with red shoes and lips to match. Will’s nose, still riding high on the boost Hannibal’s blood gave his senses, picks up her perfume, something soft and sweet that Will thinks suits her.

He’s not sure why he thinks soft and sweet suits her, since he still can’t figure her out. Something about her is different, in the same way that Hannibal is different, but not the same at all.

He supposes he has been staring too long and too hard, because Hannibal clears his throat and gives him a pointed look. Will smiles, small, at the thought that the vampire might be jealous.

The smile at a crime scene, which Will realizes is highly inappropriate and happens all too often when he and Hannibal are together, seems to raise Jack’s hackles as it always does. “Are you planning to do...whatever it is that you do?” Jack asks, with a flap of his fingers in Will’s direction, then adds pointedly, “ _Today_?”

Will sighs, and then stands with a nod. “I am,” he replies, stepping over the dead man’s legs and then moving the remains of a brown beer bottle out of his way with his foot, before carefully lowering himself to his knees at the corpse’s side. He can already feel his power flickering beneath the surface of his mind, and wonders idly if Hannibal’s blood has made it stronger, more ready to come out to play. He hesitates only a moment before reaching for the man, with a feeling not unlike creeping closer to the edge of a cliff, preparing to take a dive.

There’s only one way to find out, after all.

His fingers have only just made the barest of contact with the dead man’s cheek when he hears Hannibal’s voice say, “Wait.”

Will pulls his hand away and looks back at Hannibal, finding him to be watching Will intently. Will waits, expecting him to speak to him, but instead after giving him a pointed look that Will is sure is supposed to mean something, he turns his eyes to look at Jack over the top of Alana’s head. “I think,” he starts, in what must be his best therapist voice, “It would be best if Will did not have such an audience for this.”

Will blinks. Jack looks taken aback, and when Will moves his eyes to Alana, her expression is strangely indecipherable.

Jack recovers quickly. “ _I_ think it would be best if he were supervised,” he argues, “Considering he’s contaminated every crime scene I’ve called him to.”

Hannibal smiles and says, “And yet, you continue to call him.”

He says it softly, the words gentle in his exotic accent. Outwardly, Hannibal looks congenial as he always does, but Will feels the razor-sharp side of that smile like an electric undercurrent. He stiffens, feeling that same ominous dread he did moments before, like they’re two steps away from a bloodbath.

“I’m right here, you know,” he says, partly because he’s irritated with being talked about, partly hoping to break through the tension he feels growing thicker in the air by the moment as Hannibal and Jack stare each other down.

All the while Alana is looking between the three of them, her shrewd gaze calculating.

Hannibal smooths down his lapels, a gesture that strikes Will as odd, since he’s never seen the man come remotely close to showing any emotion as banal as agitation. It’s only more proof how out of sorts he is, how affected he is by the scene before them, and it makes Will nervous, like his anchor has slipped its hold.

Jack is gearing up to say something, but Hannibal holds his hand up to stay the torrent of words that are no doubt going to begin to flow and says with finality, “I have given you my professional opinion, Agent Crawford. Which you sought me out for, just as you sought out Will’s, if you will recall.”

Jack’s mouth shuts with a click. His eyes finally find Will’s, and Will gives a half shrug. “I did tell you the night we met I didn’t want an audience,” he tells him, “The more people are around, the harder it is for me to concentrate.”

Jack clearly doesn’t want to go, but he taps Alana on the shoulder and jerks his head in the direction of the street. “I’m coming back in five minutes,” he announces, and then follows her when she turns to walk away, leveling one last inquisitive look in Hannibal’s direction.

When they’re gone, Will levels his _own_ inquisitive look in Hannibal’s direction. “What was all _that_ about?” he asks, raising a brow and looking up at Hannibal as he ventures closer, “It’s not like Jack hasn’t seen me do this before.”

“I am unconcerned with Jack,” Hannibal replies shortly, looking past Will at the dead man. Will’s brow hitches higher at that. Alana, then. He starts to ask, but then watches instead as Hannibal’s lips twist into something that is half a frown, half a snarl, and his voice sounds too rough to be human again when he adds, “See what you can see, Will. Then, I would be very pleased to get you far away from here.”

Will wants to object to being ordered around. But, crouched at his feet while Hannibal towers over him, clearly struggling to keep his shit together, Will decides arguing with him isn’t the best idea at the moment, especially considering he would rather be far away from this alley as well. And so, with one last look up at Hannibal’s inscrutable expression, he turns back to the corpse, reaches out with a trembling hand.

His power is there waiting on him again, as readily as it was the night in the stairwell when he his instincts kicked far into overdrive, as eagerly as it has been every time he’s called it forth since he had Hannibal’s blood. Before, he had to coax it to life, as carefully as one shields a tiny flame with great hopes of becoming a bonfire from the wind. Now it ripples beneath the surface, dark and ominous, like some great, dreadful beast slumbering just underneath a dark, still pond.

He has always hated his ability, in the darkest depths of his heart. But somewhere between using it to peer into Hannibal’s mind to see the truth of him and the way the man had described what it felt like to him—his _magic—_ he has started to see it differently, even without realizing it. When he drags his fingers through that dark, still pond tonight, he does so almost lovingly, watching the ripples he causes appear with interest.

When that dreadful beast springs forth, crashing through the surface with a deafening splash, dripping with Hannibal’s blood, he feels something close to affection for it for the first time in his life.

His palm presses against the dead man’s cold cheek, and Will opens his eyes at the same time the corpse does. For a split second, Will and the man unfortunate enough to favor him stare at each other in the ringing silence. Then, the screaming starts.

It’s easier than ever, now, to simply slip inside. To look back further than he ever has before, with as much ease as turning pages in a well-worn book, choosing a chapter with which to start and watching as the scene assembles itself around him before his very eyes.

_He walks out of the store, whistling to himself the same tune that was piped into the speakers inside, moving his plastic bag of purchases onto the same arm as the one holding his take-out Chinese, leaving the paper bag with his liquor cradled alone in the other arm. Safe, from being dropped and broken. He can live without the food, he could care less if his bitch of a wife gets the tampons she demanded he bring home for her, but he can’t live without his gin. He’s already had a few gulps between stops to take the edge off after his shitty day at work, to dull his senses before he gets home where he’ll have to deal with his two surly teenagers, but it’s not enough. It never is, really._

_Eager to get home and have at it, he decides to cut through the alley._

_He makes it about halfway through before a woman steps out from behind the overflowing dumpster. Dark hair and even darker eyes, she’s pretty enough that he stops short, gives her his best smile._

_Before he can say anything, though, the woman speaks. “Necromancer,” she says, her voice girlish and soft._

“ _Huh?” he replies, his brow furrowing._

_Her smile widens in the face of his confusion. There’s something about her that seems off, and even buzzed as he is, he feels the need to take a step back when she takes a step closer. “Will Graham,” she tells him, and she would sound almost sweet as she said it if something didn’t sound wrong, like her mouth was full or something, as she purrs, “He’s been searching for you.”_

“ _He who?” he answers, holding the brown paper bag tighter against his chest. He shakes his head hard, trying to clear it. “Look, lady,” he says, irritated, “My name isn’t Bill, it’s David. You’ve got the wrong guy.”_

“ _Do I?” she asks, her mouth splitting into a wider grin, then continues to split, and he watches in mute horror as her mouth seems to fill up with sharp, jagged teeth._

_His bottle of gin cracks loudly on the pavement when he drops his bags, and turns to run, but the other end of the alley is blocked by two more things just like the woman, two young men this time, barely more than teenagers if that, smiling their awful smiles. In the split-second of hesitation, he’s caught around the neck and slammed up against the brick wall so hard that he sees stars._

_When they clear, there’s a monster in front of him wearing a pretty girl’s face, flanked on either side by the two men, eyes black and soulless, mouthful of sharp teeth glittering white in what little light reaches from the street. “That’s not him,” one of them is saying, “It can’t be. Matthew saw him, and said he’s much prettier than this one is.”_

“ _This one isn’t very pretty at all,” the other man says, voice garbled by too many teeth._

“ _I’m not him!” he whines, twisting in the woman’s grip, and it’s too harsh, too tight, he can’t make any sense of it. “Please,” he begs, “Just let me go, and I won’t tell anyone, I swear! Please! I’m not who you’re looking for!”_

“ _Let me have a look, hm?”_

_It’s a different voice. Almost immediately, the hand around his throat falls away, and as he coughs and blinks his eyes furiously to see through his tears, the three monsters who had him cornered scramble back to get out of the way, revealing two others that have joined them._

_One is a man, tall and portly and balding, dressed in an all black suit. The other man at his side, the one that spoke, is wearing a white jacket with thick fur at the collar, his blonde hair sticking up in all directions, an amused expression on his face at the scene before him._

_As the man strolls towards him, he pushes back against the wall, wanting desperately to run but having nowhere else to go. The man comes close to peer into his face, close enough for him to get a clear look at his soft, almost feminine features, at the shockingly blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He hums thoughtfully as he examines him, then shakes his head, his features twisting unnaturally with rage. “This,” he says after a moment, his voice shrill but still booming in the alleyway as he turns back to the others, baring two sharp white fangs in a snarl, “This is the wrong one. You’ve brought me the wrong one! Cordell? Cordell!”_

_The heavy-set man—Cordell—nods his head in agreement, and growls at the others, “This one is too old.”_

_The woman’s black eyes are wide, fearful, as she gasps out, “I’m sorry, Master, I thought—”_

“ _He doesn’t_ care _what you thought!” Cordell roars, abruptly baring a mouthful of sharp teeth that weren’t there before, and the other three shrink back in obvious fear. The one they called Master turns away with a flutter of his long coat, and begins to head out of the alley without another word. Cordell goes to follow, stopping only to hiss out, “Find him, or I’ll end all three of you myself.”_

_He trembles against the wall, wondering if he’s been saved, somehow, until the woman raises her voice to speak. “What about the human?”_

_Cordell doesn’t spare him a glance as he follows in the other man’s wake, and feels his blood run cold at the sound, feels warm wetness soaking the front of his pants and running down his leg in the terror that grips him when he carelessly throws his reply over his shoulder._

“ _Kill him.”_

Will is thrown forcefully out of the dead man’s mind when he lunges for Cordell as he goes, wanting to wrap his hands around his throat, to rip him to pieces with his hands and his teeth with a burning need to shed blood he’s never felt before in his entire life. But there are arms around him that stop him, holding him from going any further, and he hisses and snarls and fights harder than he ever had reason to before, trying to free himself, desperate to catch him before he slips through his fingers.

“Will. _Will_.”

Hannibal’s voice breaks through his bloodlust like a sledgehammer through glass, and Will sags in his arms, against his chest, his fingers finally stopping their clawing to instead cling, digging into layers of soft wool and cotton until he feels something solid and unyielding underneath. “Let me go,” he gasps out, unable to form any other thoughts, his teeth gritted until his jaw aches, his throat burning and hoarse as if he’s been screaming to the top of his lungs for hours.

He can feel Hannibal’s cheek press against his, the bare scratch of his barely-there stubble, the skin beneath it cool and calming. His lips are by Will’s ear when he speaks, his voice low and melodic and calming. “I will not,” he replies, steady as always, his voice for once not soothing Will’s ragged nerves. He feels a broad hand petting down his back, and Hannibal’s cool breath against his ear as he whispers, “You are not the killer, nor his victim. Your name is Will Graham—”

“I _know_ who I am,” he hisses out, and tightens his grip on Hannibal’s arms to wrench himself back, to fight his way free. Hannibal’s superior strength doesn’t allow it, and Will’s surge of strength quickly flags and he sags against his shoulder, panting from exertion, and shudders hard in Hannibal’s arms.

Hannibal allows a brief, dry kiss against his temple, then asks softly, “What did you see?”

Will makes a quiet sound of distress, and Hannibal holds him harder as he shakes. “They thought he was me,” he whispers, his voice muffled as he presses his face against Hannibal’s shoulder, “He’s dead because of me.”

Hannibal’s fingers grip the nape of Will’s neck from behind, massaging gently. “Will,” he starts, “It isn’t your fault—”

“He was here,” Will breathes out, interrupting him, and Hannibal stills suddenly. His hands go to Will’s shoulders and grip on the verge of too tight, pulling him back enough so that he can look Will in the eye.

His dark gaze flickers over Will’s face, back and forth between his eyes, until he finally asks, very carefully, “Mason?” Will slowly nods. “Mason is here, in Baltimore?” Will nods again, and watches as Hannibal takes a slow, deep breath. His eyes are in flames, but outwardly only a muscle in his jaw tics once, twice, and then his hand tightens on the back of Will’s neck. “Come,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his voice as he adds, “We are leaving.”

But Will doesn’t budge, his eyes staring into the space where Mason and Cordell disappeared into, when the dead man’s life suddenly was cut to black nothingness. He doesn’t know where they have gone, but he wants to find them, _end_ them, with a desperation he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before. His fingers clinch into fists at his sides, and Hannibal must be privy to the spike of emotion through his blood, enough that he stops in his tracks and turns to face him.

“Will?” he asks, when he can’t seem to get Will to meet his eyes, “What is it?” Will can’t tear his eyes away from the mouth of the alley, until Hannibal’s fingers are beneath his chin, forcing him to look up, and Will does, staring hard at Hannibal, cold rage simmering in his eyes. Hannibal must see it, as well as feel it, because he asks quietly, “Will, what did you see?”

Will doesn’t feel like smiling one bit, and yet his lips peel back over his teeth in something more like a grimace. “There was a man with him,” he says, his eyes unfocused as he sees the man’s face in his mind’s eye, more familiar than the one in front of him now, more familiar even than the one he sees when he looks in the mirror. It has, after all, been a nearly constant companion for the last two decades of his life, haunting him, day and night.

“His name is Cordell,” Will whispers on a trembling breath, “And he’s the vampire that killed my father.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you happy?” Will asks him, even though he already thinks he knows the answer, even without being bound to him by blood, even though it seems a ridiculous sentiment considering who they are, what they are.
> 
> “Frightfully,” Hannibal answers in barely more than a shivering whisper.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will works through his issues with Jack and with Hannibal, in vastly different ways.

“Will,” Hannibal is saying, although Will can barely hear him over the sound of his own heart beating. Too loudly, he thinks, the blood pulsing hot and angry in his ears. So loudly, he wonders if Hannibal can’t hear it as it gallops through his veins.

Hannibal’s hand is still on his neck, a cool and comforting weight until he uses his grip to shake him slightly. Will’s eyes snap to his, and hears him say, “Doctor Bloom and Agent Crawford are coming.”

That’s what he says, but what Will hears is _get your shit together._ He hears the sound of heels against the concrete, is able to smell Alana’s light perfume already, and tries to school his features. Hannibal watches him closely, and gives his neck one last gentle squeeze to let him know he’s done well enough, before setting him free and taking a step back, just as Jack and Alana round the corner.

“Well?” Jack asks, shoving his hands in his pockets as he comes to a stop in the mouth of the alley. He’s big and broad, too similar in size and stature to Cordell, and Will feels his fingers flex without meaning to allow it to happen, wanting to ball into fists. Alana is at his side, dwarfed by him, and is studying him carefully. Her gaze is sharp, not completely unlike the way Hannibal looks at him.

Will doesn’t know what to say, and looks helplessly at Hannibal, whose calm expression gives away nothing of what was just so plainly written in his eyes mere moments before when Will informed him of Mason’s presence in Baltimore. Will looks at Jack, and almost pities the man. He has no _idea_ what he’s stumbled into. Will still might not know much, but he does know that there is something going on here that is bigger than him, bigger than the FBI, and perhaps older than the country that the FBI serves four or five times over.

But there is a single body here, now, and Jack Crawford is waiting on an answer nonetheless, and looking less than pleased about being made to wait for it. Will clears his throat and looks down at his shoes, and when he speaks he’s surprised at how level he manages to make his voice be. “More of the same,” he says, finally.

“Another vampire attack,” Jack replies, the tone of his voice making it clear just how feasible he still finds this explanation to be. Will realizes suddenly how little he cares for rather or not the agent believes him, since he knows that all of them—Jack, Price and Zeller, Beverly—will be better off in the end if they don’t get caught in the crossfire that’s bound to happen. Hannibal is old, but Mason is older. Will and his fellow humans are nothing more than ants to have crossed their path at the wrong time, when the boots are sure to start falling, after centuries caught in mid-step.

Jack is still looking at him, though, oblivious. “Yes,” Will answers steadily, “Another vampire attack.”

“The modus operandi is the same,” Hannibal points out. Alana is looking between the three of them like she’s watching a tennis match, silently absorbing.

Will doesn’t realize how suspicious he finds her until she finally opens her mouth. “Why does the corpse look so much like you, Will?” she asks.

Will struggles to keep his expression even and shrugs his shoulders, and doesn’t look back at the man he feels like he’s had a hand in killing, however inadvertently. “Bad luck?” he lies.

“You don’t know?” Jack presses, “What did you see?”

“I saw a _vampire_ , Jack,” Will snaps, and unable to keep his tone in check any longer, it turns abruptly sour, “But you don’t want to hear that, do you?” Jack looks ready to argue, and Will, with his hackles raised high, cuts smoothly across him. “You know what? If you don’t like my answers, get your own.”

Jack’s expression darkens like the sky when the thunderclouds converge before a heavy storm. “I’m going to pretend I did not hear that,” he says, purposefully slow and even and pointedly enunciated, his voice quiet enough that it’s obvious he’s forcing it to stay that way.

Will, too raw from seeing the face of the man who killed his father again only moments ago, takes a step closer to Jack and grinds out, “Too insubordinate, Jack? I don’t work for you.”

Jack isn’t afraid of him, which isn’t entirely surprising, but then again he doesn’t know he has reason to be. Will is suddenly struck with the realization, the moment that thought crosses his mind, that he _does_ have a reason to be. “Maybe not,” Jack answers, cutting through Will’s alarming train of thought, “But there are people here that do, and I don’t need them getting any ideas.” As if on cue, Will glances over Jack’s shoulder to see Beverly peeking around the corner, her eyes almost comically wide. Jack notices him looking and turns to glare, and she quickly disappears.

Will’s eyes shift back to Jacks, fixing him with a hard look. “If you talk to them like you talk to me?” he says, “I hope they get _plenty_ of ideas.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, in his fucking therapist voice, attempting to assuage the situation.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will shoots back in the same tone of voice, mocking.

Alana’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. Luckily, she’s staring at Will in her shock, and therefore misses the way Hannibal looks at him like he’s seriously considering jumping him right there, in the garbage-strewn alley. It lightens Will’s mood ever-so-slightly, to be the only one that knows Hannibal has literally eaten people for less cheek than what Hannibal happily lets him get away with.

He chastises himself internally for being the _opposite_ of turned off by the thought.

“Agent Crawford,” Hannibal says into the silence that’s fallen, so quiet one could hear a pin drop, “Will has looked, as you asked, and has informed you of what he saw.” He steps forward, and wraps his hand around Will’s upper arm, before looking back to Jack with a raised brow and asking, “After his recent illness, I believe it would be best for him to get out of the cold, now. If that will be all?”

Hannibal asks this in that polite way of his that makes it clear to all involved that the decision has already been made. Jack is still staring at Will hard, but finally nods his head. He’s already turning back to where the body lays, a frown deepening the wrinkles in his forehead, when Hannibal begins to lead him away.

Will goes without protest, unless grinding his teeth counts as a protest. Since Hannibal can no doubt hear it, and feel the simmering upset that causes it, he supposes Hannibal might argue that it does. They make it to the street, only to be accosted by Beverly, who looks as though she’s fit to burst with glee at any moment. Despite his insistence otherwise only a few seconds before, Will holds up a hand—on the arm that Hannibal is still gripping like Will is a dog that might run away at any moment—and tells her before she has a chance to say a word, “I was out of line.”

“You were out of your freaking  _mind,_ ” she whispers, although her voice is still raised with her excitement. “My ears are ringing like the first time I heard my mom say the f-word,” she goes on, reaching out to clap Will on the shoulder before adding conspiratorially, “You’re my new hero. All of our new hero, once I tell Jimmy and Brian everything that just happened word for word.”

“You’ve got godawful taste in heroes,” he mutters.

If Beverly hears him, she doesn’t respond, already looking past him with a crooked grin on her face. Will feels Hannibal stiffen beside him, just slightly, a split-second before he hears the sound of high heels on dirty concrete again, heralding the presence of Alana Bloom. “You wanna go get that drink tonight?” Beverly asks her, having moved on quickly from the entertainment Will has provided her with.

“I have plans,” Alana replies apologetically, coming to stand beside Will. Hannibal’s fingers dig into his arm, just barely, pulling him closer so minutely that Will knows no one would notice. But Will does, and Hannibal’s strange behavior only further piques his curiosity. “Rain check?” Alana asks Beverly.

Beverly gives her an exaggerated double thumbs up and turns to head back to the body, Will supposes, but not before calling over her shoulder, “Bring your girlfriend, huh?”

Then she’s gone, leaving Will alone with Alana and Hannibal, who is still latched onto his arm like a dog with a particularly delicious bone. Will both loathes and is amused by the thought when it crosses his mind.

“Girlfriend?” Hannibal asks, and Will looks up from the alley into which Beverly disappeared to find Hannibal watching Alana with sharp, glacial eyes, one fine brow arched high. Alana nods once, and looks away, clearly uncomfortable, which Will finds beyond odd. Hannibal blinks, and suddenly he’s oozing charm once again, every bit the dashing, exotic doctor Will met at first, nothing of what he now knows him to be peeking through the cracks. Now that Will knows better, this particular smile seems oily, out of place on Hannibal’s handsome face as he purrs, “I would love to have you both for dinner.”

 _Oh, shit_. Will raises an eyebrow at Hannibal with a silent, _Really?_

“It’s been a long time,” Alana replies, hesitant.

“Inexcusably,” Hannibal agrees, still smiling as he offers, “I shall send an invitation to your office, if you are still in the same location?”

Alana nods once, and then turns to Will. “It was nice meeting you,” she tells him, then glances at the vampire at his side, giving him a nod. “Hannibal,” she says curtly in lieu of a goodbye, her voice clipped, and Will is struck by how distant she is, after how warmly she greeted him. She turns away, pulling her keys from her purse, and makes her way towards a little blue car whose lights flash when she presses the button on her key fob. Will watches Hannibal as the other man watches her go, his expression blank, but his dark eyes calculating.

In her wake, Will and Hannibal are alone, but for the officers and other people milling around the street at a scant distance. Will wets his lips, lowers his voice, and asks quietly, “I’m guessing you meant that literally?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Hannibal still has his hand wrapped around Will’s arm and his body turned towards Will like a flower to the sun, Will would suspect Hannibal had temporarily forgotten he was there altogether. His eyes snap to Will’s, and something dark and frightening moves behind his eyes. Will doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing.

“I meant what I said literally, in the sense that I would _literally_ be inviting them to dinner,” he replies, and gives Will’s arm a tug, starting them both in the direction of his car without actually bothering to unhand him. Will finds he doesn’t entirely mind, being led and directed, not having to think about his next step. Hannibal doesn’t speak again until they’re almost to the car, parked silent and sleek and dark where they left it on the street, adding in a quiet tone so as not to be overheard by the blue-uniformed cop leaned against the building nearest to his car to whom he raises his hand in a polite greeting, “I’m afraid I would find her taste unpalatable, now.”

Will stares at him as Hannibal opens his door for him, trying to make his way through the ridiculous riddles the man often deems it necessary to speak in, and tries to tamp down the even more ridiculous flare of jealousy he feels before Hannibal becomes privy to it through their bond at the idea that he has any idea of how Alana Bloom might _taste_. It’s clear he’s failed miserably when Hannibal smirks at him, sharp-toothed and dangerous even with his fangs safely tucked away.

Will sighs—at Hannibal, at himself, at the entire state of his life—and drops into his seat. By the time Hannibal joins him in the cockpit, Will feels as though he is wilting, and rests his head in his hands and stays there as Hannibal starts the car and pulls away from the curb.

When he lifts his head again, he sees the squalid city streets flashing by quicker than they should be, and glances over at Hannibal, quickly realizing just how much the man was schooling his own expression back at the crime scene. Now, even though the changes are slight he looks _livid_ ; his eyes narrowed as he stares out into the streets he’s navigating at breakneck speeds as if they have personally wronged him, his lips pursed and downturned, his jaw clenched so hard Will can spot a muscle ticking in the streetlights as they illuminate his face and cast it in deep shadows in turns.

A full moment passes before Hannibal breaks the silence. “Tell me what you couldn’t tell Jack, Will,” he all but demands.

Will runs a hand over his face, frustrated. “I couldn’t tell Jack _anything_ ,” he answers, “He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He’s called in a fucking _vampire_ to consult on the case and made him my fucking babysitter, for god’s sake.” Hannibal turns his eyes from the road long enough to glare at him, for his language or for his accusations or both, and Will bares his teeth. “Don’t you give me that look,” he growls, pointing a damning finger in Hannibal’s direction, “You’ve stood there with that mildly concerned expression on your face even though you know more than we all do combined. You’ve stood there over your _own_ fucking kill, Hannibal. Don’t think for a moment that because of recent events I’ve forgotten that you’ve made as big a fool out of me as you have out of Jack and the FBI.” He lets loose a mirthless laugh and adds bitterly, “At least they don’t _know_ about it.”

Hannibal’s upper lip twitches up in half a snarl. The air feels thicker, colder than it should. “You should prefer to remain blind, then, I suppose?” he bites out, voice more caustic than Will has ever heard before, “Like your dear Uncle Jack, like everyone else?”

“My eyes were opened long before I ever met you, Hannibal,” Will hisses, and he doesn’t know why he’s so angry, really, just that it is. “I _envy_ their blindness,” he says, his voice loud and high and tight, his words barbed, even though he knows that’s not entirely true—the proof of that is sitting beside him, seething. But Will is seething too, with impotent anger towards someone else who remains out of his reach, just as he always has. “Tonight I looked into the eyes of the one that stole my blindness from me,” he says, on a hitching breath, “He’s here, in Baltimore, with _your_ maker. Searching for me, and killing innocent people that happen to get in their way.”

Hannibal says nothing, and his silence burns Will, both fanning the flames and dousing them as he wonders at the cause for Hannibal’s rare lack of words. He settles back in his seat to watch him closely, wetting his lips and opening his mouth repeatedly, biting back the spill of a thousand questions each time. Hannibal doesn’t so much as glance in his direction to see any of this, but nonetheless, he says somewhat sharply, “Speak your mind, Will.”

Will swallows, and looks away for a moment, feeling caught out. But his gaze returns to Hannibal’s profile, needing to see his face. He speaks more softly than he means too, honestly afraid of what his answer will be. “You knew, didn’t you?” he asks.

Hannibal’s fingers flex on the steering wheel. “I’m afraid you will have to be more specific,” he replies, his accent clipped.

Will is forced to swallow hard again around the growing lump in his throat. “About Cordell,” he whispers, and loses the nerve to watch Hannibal’s face, since he can’t quite imagine what he’ll do if he learns that Hannibal has had some hand in his father’s death, in everything that has transpired for Will since the last time he saw that vampire’s face in his father’s final moments.

Hannibal finally does look at him then; long enough that Will looks up to meet his gaze. Long enough that it’s surely unsafe that his eyes aren’t on where he’s going. Long enough to soak in the very human pain in Will’s eyes, before he forces himself to look away.

“Yes,” he says, finally, simply.

The single word feels like ice water pouring down Will’s spine. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and nods his head, just once. He still recognizes the area around them, and it won’t take him long to walk home from where they are. “Stop the car,” he says, surprised at how level his voice sounds, since what he really wants to do is start screaming and never stop. When Hannibal makes no move to do what he asks, Will’s hand reaches for the door handle, and he says more forcefully, “Hannibal, stop this fucking car.”

“No,” Hannibal replies, just as calmly as if they were discussing rather or not Will should expect rain, but Will can hear the tension behind it, his voice strung tighter than a bow.

“ _No_?” Will repeats incredulously, hissing the word through his teeth. He feels trapped, caught, in far too deep, and the thought makes him feel reckless enough to do something crazy, reckless enough that his power raises its head in the pool of his mind and crackles in the confines of the car, and is audible in the timbre of his voice as he demands, “I can’t—I’m going home. Let me _out.”_

The unspoken _before I make you let me out_ hangs in the heated air around them.

Hannibal doesn’t so much as glance at him, though his lips press into a thin line and his chin raises. “If you think I am going to let you out of my sight after tonight, Will, you are sorely mistaken,” he says tightly.

Will gapes at him, another chill washing over him like a cold wave. “If you think you have the right to _let_ me do anything,” he growls, “You’re even more fucked in the head than I thought you were.”

Hannibal swerves onto a side road so quickly that he nearly mounts the curb, causing the lone poor drunk pedestrian in the area to nearly fall over as he stumbles out of the way. Hannibal’s palm slams down on the child safety locks so hard that Will hears something in the car’s door crack, and the sound of the car doors locking simultaneously is deafening and ominous in the silence that falls.

Hannibal doesn’t look at him, but he’s _exuding_ violence. Although Will had stupidly thought earlier in the evening that his prey-animal instincts were broken, they suddenly come roaring back to the front of his mind from wherever they had been lying dormant. His hand is still on the door handle, but he’s frozen like a deer in the headlights, his lizard brain hissing at him, _danger, danger_.

Hannibal opens his mouth, revealing his fangs down and ready to be used, takes a deep breath with a curl of his lip. Will wonders if he’s scenting the very real fear Will is feeling, and wonders if he enjoys the flavor. When he turns to look at Will, finally, the way his head swivels on his neck strikes Will as vaguely reptilian, and not at all human. Will’s heart and his brain are at war about what it means that Hannibal allows him to see him this way, on the other side of the veil. At his least human, at his most monster.

“Mason is the oldest and most powerful vampire I have ever encountered,” he hisses, his eyes so cold and dark they look black in the weak, flickering street lamp above them. “Cordell is his, just as I am his. His control over us, and all the others he has created, is absolute and infinite.” Will’s eyes widen at this, and another shock of fear runs through him—a moment of doubt, a moment where he must consider that he’s locked in an enclosed space with a version of Death himself, who just admitted to being a puppet to a creature that wants him, who is scouring the earth for him.

He feels a moment of pure terror, the likes of which he’s never known, not because if that were true he is most likely about to meet his end—that, he can accept—but because of what it would mean for his heart if he were so wrong about Hannibal. Hannibal must sense this, see it in his face or feel it in his blood, reaching out lightning-fast to grip the front of Will’s shirt and haul him in close, halfway over the center console, close enough that all Will can see in his field of vision is his pitch-black eyes and the light glinting off his sharp teeth.

“Cordell has always delighted in his subservience,” he grinds out, voice harsh as it is forced out through gritted teeth, “I have raged against it since the moment of my rebirth, spent the intervening centuries searching for him so that I could put an end to it, one way or another. I had nothing to lose but my life. And I would have given it, gladly, for a chance for revenge. For freedom. I would have done _anything._ Do you understand, Will?”

Will can hardly find the wherewithal to breathe, must less speak, and so he jerks his head quickly from side to side instead, afraid to move more than that, afraid to even so much as blink.

Hannibal smiles, and it’s a cruel, hideous thing, devoid completely of humor or mirth. “He took everything from me, when I was a mere human, and could do nothing to fight back, _nothing_ to protect her,” he whispers fiercely. “What a cosmic jest it is, beautiful boy, to finally have the answer at my fingertips after a thousand years of searching. To have found the _one_ person on this planet who might be able to control him as he can control me, to bring an _end_ to this, only to realize revenge is what I long for no more.”

Will swallows hard enough that his throat clicks, loud enough that it is audible over the sound of the engine that still purrs around them. Hannibal is staring at him hard enough that Will feels as though he’s looking right through him, down to the very core of him, down to the very new, very real fear that is beginning to well up from the deepest depths of his soul. He can parse the truth easily from Hannibal’s words, well enough to imagine Hannibal’s own thoughts when he first got the call from Jack, telling him about the man he had found and what exactly he could do. Hannibal had thought to use him, to gain control over Mason, and Will has no doubt that he planned to do exactly that, whatever the cost to Will may have been.

Something is clawing up from his chest into his throat at Hannibal’s words, at how vehemently he speaks of throwing aside a grudge that has lived on longer than Will can fathom, the revenge he has sought for ten centuries. How he speaks of throwing it all away, for _him;_ not only for a human, but for the human who was his one chance at getting all he has ever desired. But much like it had for Will himself, something monumental had shifted, changed. And he knows what that thing that has changed is, can see it written on Hannibal’s face even as he seethes, can the feel deep, abysmal darkness of it like a third passenger in the car, can feel its mate rising up from the ashes within himself to lodge, hard and unforgiving, in his throat.

Because hasn’t it been the same for himself all along? Hadn’t he thrown his own mindless grudge, his own revenge that he’s spent his lifetime chasing, into the wind for love? Isn’t he doing the same even now?

When Will speaks, he does so breathlessly. “And now?” he whispers, trembling, “What do you want now?”

“You,” Hannibal answers without hesitation, “I want you whole, Will. I want to take you to the opposite end of the earth from wherever Mason is, to hide you and shelter you and keep you safe from him, whatever the cost.”

Will knows the answer to his question already, before it has even had a chance to form. “Why?” he asks, his voice barely more than a wisp of sound in the quiet of the car.

“Because I love you, Will,” Hannibal answers in a harsh whisper, his deep voice tremulous, like the words are being pulled violently from his chest, like the very fact that the words are true make him angry, so angry, “More than I have ever loved anyone but her, more than I ever thought myself capable of loving again. So fiercely it borders on madness.”

Will is not sure he’s ever understood a sentiment more in his entire life. “Yes,” he manages to whisper hoarsely, before closing the distance between them to kiss him.

Hannibal’s hand is still fisted in his shirtfront, and he hauls him in even closer as their lips meet in a harsh clash. Will’s own hands rise to frame Hannibal’s face, fingers digging into his flesh before sliding to grip his hair, gaining control in this as he bends the vampire to his will, twists and tugs so that their mouths can slant together to his liking. He licks into Hannibal’s mouth, and a motoring sound bursts from the vampire’s chest when his tongue catches on the tip of a fang, spilling blood, before diving deeper to seek out Hannibal’s own. Their lips catch against each other over and over again, and they swallow the others moans, hands gripping and pulling with barely restrained violence before shifting into something so delicate and tender that makes Will’s heart hurt and back again, not in turns, but somehow simultaneously.

It’s not enough, and perhaps it never will be, but Will is suddenly struck with the desperate need for more. He’s not entirely sure he’ll survive another moment without it.

He’s still sucking and nipping at Hannibal’s lips as his hands slip from the other man’s hair, down to his own lap to struggle with the fly of his jeans as he kicks off his boots into the floorboard of the car. It has to be sheer dumb luck that for once his shaking fingers decide to obey him, enough that he breaks their kiss and arches off the car seat to push his pants and underwear down together in one fell swoop, managing to free one leg completely before giving up on the other, letting them hang limply around one ankle.

Hannibal watches him with pupils blown black, disheveled and panting like he’s forgotten he hasn’t the need to breathe when Will scrambles across the center console and plants himself in his lap and reaches up to grasp his chin, wrenching that gasping, lethal mouth to his. Hannibal’s hands land on Will’s waist, rucking his shirt up as his broad palms run up Will’s back to feel the curve of his spine as he leans over him, before sliding back down to palm his bare ass, squeezing hard. Will’s own hands drop down between them, digging through the folds of fabric to find Hannibal’s fly, pulling it down so hard he hears fabric tear along with it. Hannibal only moans into his mouth in response as Will works one hand into the cleaved waistband of his trousers, fingers seizing around the thickness of his cock, stroking him once in the confines of his underpants before he pulls him free.

Will reaches back blindly to grip Hannibal’s wrist, tearing the other man’s wandering hand away from his body long enough to drag it up to his face. For the first time since he deposited himself in his lap, Will looks up to meet Hannibal’s eyes, holding his gaze mercilessly as he sucks down his first two fingers. Hannibal bares his fangs in a snarl, and his cock twitches hard in Will’s hand as he sucks, laving his tongue over the two digits before slowly pulling back, leaving his fingers shining with wetness, saliva streaked pink with blood from where his tongue sliced on Hannibal’s sharp teeth.

With his grip on Hannibal’s wrist still crushingly tight, he shoves Hannibal’s hand behind him. Hannibal looks helpless but to obey when Will guides his fingertips to brush against his hole, even more so when Will whispers, a soft command, a plea, “Hannibal, _please_.”

Hannibal’s eyes are dark fathoms, lips parted and staring at Will in something akin to wonder as he slowly, absently nods his head. Will kisses Hannibal hard, whining into his mouth when spit-slick fingers pierce him, first one and then both, working their way past the initial tightness to glide deeper. Hannibal’s free hand presses against the small of his back, and he groans against Will’s lips as he forces Will’s back into deeper bend, allowing him to press in further. Will cries out as Hannibal stretches him with every stroke of his fingers, because it's painful, and it burns, but he grips Hannibal’s broad shoulders with both hands, fingers digging into the hard muscles there, and pushes back against the intrusion and bites harsh kisses against Hannibal’s lips and burns even more deeply for more, _more_.

“Enough,” Will snarls against the rumbling growl emanating from Hannibal’s mouth as his fingers caress him from within, biting his tongue and turning his head away when Hannibal only growls louder and tries to kiss him again. He spits into his palm and reaches down between them, spreading the wetness over the head of Hannibal’s cock, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull himself up, flush against the vampire’s chest, dislodging his fingers and groaning with the loss.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, hands landing on Will’s hips and squeezing as Will grips his cock and positions him against his entrance. He speaks his name in warning, Will supposes, even though to his ears in this moment it sounds more like a desperate plea, a supplication. A promise.

It’s this that Will answers. “Yes,” he breathes out against Hannibal’s lips, pausing for a split-second to kiss him, soft and sweet. He doesn’t pull away, leaves his lips brushing against Hannibal’s cool mouth so that he can drink in the inhuman sound Hannibal makes when Will bears down and lowers himself onto Hannibal’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses as the blunt head of him presses against Will’s hole, his eyes slamming shut and panting harsh against Hannibal’s lips as he slowly sinks down. His spit doesn’t do much to ease the way, and he’s not stretched enough and Hannibal is thick, and it _hurts_ , but he can’t bring himself to stop. Every inch is hard-won, and Will can feel the tug of his insides in the small of his back and in his teeth and lighting up behind his clenched-shut eyelids.

He drops his head to rest against Hannibal’s shoulder, eyes still squeezed tightly shut, as he eases off, raising up on his knees folded against the car seat on either side of Hannibal’s thighs, and makes a strangled sound at the burning friction as Hannibal slips free. He vaguely registers Hannibal reaching for something, the snap of the center console opening and closing, before Hannibal is shoving a small unmarked tube of what turns out to be hand cream into Will’s palms. Will’s hands shake as he impatiently squeezes some out onto his fingers, reaches back to smear it over the head of Hannibal’s cock and down the straining length of him, tossing the bottle aside before lining him up against him again.

This time it’s easier, and there’s more of a glide as Will works himself down on Hannibal’s cock, shifting and twisting and crying out as each movement sends fire flickering up the base of his spine, trying to distract himself with the taste of Hannibal’s skin, lips and tongue and teeth moving absently against the tensed tendons of Hannibal’s neck. His fingers tighten reflexively against Will’s bare hips, nails digging deep, providing a bright counterpoint to the pain. Will is panting and gasping and moaning urgently by the time he’s fully seated in Hannibal’s lap, and hears the wounded sound that escapes Hannibal next to his ear.

Arm still wrapped tight around the other man’s shoulders, keeping them chest to chest, Will finally opens his eyes as he rears back to look down at Hannibal. His mouth is slack, fangs two sharp points peeking out from beneath his lower lip glittering in the light managing to make it through the tinted windows, and his eyes are hooded, pupils fully eclipsing the red of his irises as he stares up at Will.

He looks like he’s in shock. He looks awed. He looks like a man so desperately in love, like a man who has found everything he’s ever wanted, after a thousand years of searching, and doesn’t know what to do with it. Will figures he must look much the same, because he certainly feels the same, even if he has only been searching for a few decades, without even knowing what he was searching for. What he _needed,_ to feel whole.

Except, luckily, Will knows _exactly_ what to do with it, now that he’s found it.

His fingers find their way into Hannibal’s hair, slipping soft and sleek between his fingers until they catch and hold and tug sharply to pull him away from the headrest and his lips to Will’s. Their kiss is soft, almost chaste, lingering, until Will slowly rolls his hips and they both break away with twin, shocky gasps at the slow drag of Hannibal’s cock inside him. Hannibal’s gaze is searing, dark eyes sparkling and wet, his deep voice tremulous when he whispers again, “ _Will_.”

Will smiles, kisses him again, more than a little elated to have reduced the man who normally speaks in verbose poetry to this, unable to gasp out anything more than murmurs of his name. That satisfaction he feels only lasts for a second, though, because when he shifts again Hannibal’s length presses up against a place inside him that makes sparks flare across his vision and up his spine, and whatever control both of them were employing snaps abruptly with the ragged groans that spill from their lips.

Suddenly, they’re both moving, frantic and frenzied, hands grasping and hips pressing and nails clawing into flesh hard enough to threaten drawing blood as Will lifts himself up, aided by Hannibal’s hands clamped tight around his waist, before slamming himself back down into Hannibal’s lap, over and over. All the while they’re kissing, licking, sucking at tongues and lips, Hannibal’s fangs scraping and threatening with all their deadly potential. There’s barely room to move in the confines of the driver’s seat, but Will makes do, fucking himself on Hannibal’s cock until he feels like he’s being split open, like he’s making a place for Hannibal to crawl inside of him to stay.

It’s so good, Will can hardly breathe. His hands find Hannibal’s shoulders and grips, grinds down, finds an angle that tips the scales away from the nearly painful friction to something molten, liquid. So much so that he throws his head back and moans, wanton, as he rides Hannibal hard, chasing his own pleasure. Hannibal’s hands feel like they’re everywhere at once, spreading his cheeks wider so that he can run a finger over Will’s stretched, wrecked rim, nails raking hard down his spine, thumbs and fingers digging harsh enough into his hips that he’ll be wearing bruises for days, healing blood or no.

Each touch is another ember fanned into life, caught fire and lighting up every nerve ending, coursing through his veins, settling like an inferno hot and heavy in his gut. Hannibal’s eyes are wilder than Will has ever seen them, his sharp teeth bared in a vicious snarl, punctuating each roll of Will’s hips with a thrust upward of his own, finding and sharing an unerring rhythm that is slowly shaking Will to pieces. It’s base, it’s still too dry, feral and rough and it’s _perfect_ , it’s _everything,_ and it’s still not enough, he needs _more_ , and Will doesn’t realize he’s saying so out loud, chanting it like a prayer, until Hannibal is agreeing with him, _yes,_ _Will_ _, ye_ _s,_ against his throat.

“Hannibal _,”_ Will moans, his voice shaking, his body shaking, so close he can barely hold himself up anymore. He bites down on a straining tendon in Hannibal’s neck, laughs breathlessly at the vampire’s answering growl, and taunts, “Come on and _fuck me_.”

Hannibal snarls, and wraps his arms tight around Will, trapping his leaking cock between their bodies and fucks up into the tight, hot clutch of Will’s body viciously. Will can’t move up and down anymore thanks to Hannibal’s punishing grip on him, and so he moves with him, grinding their bodies together in a forceful, delicious way, burying his face in Hannibal’s hair as the sound of their moans get steadily louder in the confines of the car by the second.

He shivers when he feels Hannibal’s fangs scrape against the vulnerable skin of his neck, tightens his fingers in Hannibal’s hair to keep him there. “Please,” he begs, _aches_ , “Oh, _fuck,_ I need _—_ Hannibal _,_ please _, please_ _.”_

Hannibal makes a rough sound with his lips parted against Will’s skin, like a whine beaten out of him, and then sinks his fangs into the column of Will’s throat, slicing sharp through flesh. It’s a lancing pain that goes straight to his cock, and Will chokes on a broken moan, his vision going black as his cock spills untouched between their bodies. He can feel every pulse behind his eyes, in his teeth. Hannibal’s mouth is sealed over the wound he made, drinking from a place that feels pulled from Will down deep where his orgasm had welled. He fucks up into him once, twice more, and then Will feels him coming deep inside him with despairing groan, a rough sound, deep and wet with Will’s blood in the back of his throat.

He must black out for the briefest of moments, because when he comes back to himself, he’s sprawled against Hannibal, his cheek resting against his shoulder, staring blankly out the window into the dark alley they’ve ended up in. There’s another dumpster here, like the one back at the crime scene, but instead of a body there’s something alive, rummaging through the trash just out of his field of vision. Will watches it, content, while Hannibal lazily laps at the bite on his neck. He’s purring—honest to god _purring_ , the sound rumbling out of his chest and absorbing into Will’s. Will smiles, small and weary, and turns his head away from the window to press his nose into the blood-warm skin of Hannibal’s throat.

Hannibal sighs and pulls away enough to nose at Will’s sweat-damp curls. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and fucked out, his accent thick, smoothing over his consonants in a lazy way that strikes Will as painfully adorable. “This did not play out as I had imagined,” he murmurs eventually against Will’s temple.

“What’s that?” Will asks, his own voice far rougher than usual. He shivers in Hannibal’s arms as he runs his fingers up his back, from the cleft of his ass where he is still buried, moving lazily up his spine to the base of his neck under his shirt and slowly tracing back again. Will still aches with the stretch of him, but it’s sweet and deep, not sharp and painful. He supposes he has Hannibal’s healing blood to thank for that.

“Our first time making love,” Hannibal answers finally, almost absently, his lips moving against Will’s skin with each word.

Will snorts, turns his head to bite at Hannibal’s earlobe. “How obscenely romantic you are,” he teases, his voice soft and warm enough to take away the edge of his usual sarcasm. “You’ve been _imagining_ that, huh?” he pries, feeling Hannibal’s answering hum of assent rumbling through his chest. “For how long?”

“Since the moment I met you,” Hannibal replies, honest with no hesitation, before adding, “I admit, the specifics have changed quite a bit, over that time.”

“So you said,” Will replies with a smirk. He places his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders and rocks back in his lap, pressing his lips to his so that they can share the soft sounds of over-stimulation they both make as Hannibal, softening now, finally slips from inside him with the movement. “And what did you imagine, hm?” Will asks, looking into his dark eyes, brushing his lips against Hannibal’s with each word, “Silk sheets and perfect lighting? Somewhere that _doesn’t_ have a backdrop of trash and graffiti?”

Hannibal doesn’t deny this, and Will laughs, touching his cheek and kissing him deeper, hardly realizing that the coppery flavor of his blood on Hannibal’s tongue is becoming comforting and familiar. Hannibal is smiling when Will pulls back, crinkling the corners of his eyes with warmth, and Will loves him so much he doesn’t know what to do.

He thinks to tell him so, to return his earlier words, but one look at Hannibal’s face reminds him that he already knows. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer now and his eyes are shining, and he swallows hard as if he has a lump in his throat he can’t quite get rid of. Will smiles back, lets his thumb brush against the corner of Hannibal’s eye, lets himself forget for a moment the entire world of shit waiting for them outside of the car, and allows himself to consider instead of what it would be like to feel Hannibal, the way that he can feel him. It’s startling, how much he realizes he longs for it.

“Are you happy?” he asks him, even though he already thinks he knows the answer, even without being bound to him by blood, even though it seems a ridiculous sentiment considering who they are, what they are.

“Frightfully,” Hannibal answers in barely more than a shivering whisper.

Will’s heart feels too big for his chest, and all he can do is laugh, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s neck to draw himself closer to place a lingering kiss against the plush curve of his upper lip. “Allow me to make you less frightfully happy, then,” he teases, cupping Hannibal’s jaw, pads of his fingers scratching against stubble.

He gently turns Hannibal’s head in the direction of the dumpster, where a dirty, matted, brown face looks back at them with sharp and curious but wary eyes.

“You’re going to help me catch that dog.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will lingers in the doorway, and the déjà-vu strikes him hard enough that he almost staggers, remembering doing just the same when arriving at Hannibal’s house in the daylight the afternoon before. He was half out of his mind then, and half convinced that he had no choice but to kill the vampire who had so thoroughly pulled the wool over his eyes before tearing it forcefully away. Only a handful of hours have passed since then, but everything has changed, so completely it makes Will’s head spin. 
> 
> -
> 
> In which the boys, caught in the eye of the storm, bring their new friend home for dinner.

It took some convincing. Surprisingly, not on Hannibal’s part, but rather on the dog’s.

Hannibal had only loosed one long-suffering sigh and muttered something about Will being a terror, before helping him back into his seat. Sore, bare ass leaking Hannibal’s come against the fine leather, Will had gingerly slid back into the clothes that were still hanging limply onto one ankle before getting out of the car, leaving Hannibal alone to right his own clothes as he picked his way through the scattered trash towards the  _second_ dumpster he’s found himself lingering around in the same night.

Hannibal joined him eventually, presumably to offer the aforementioned help, but he mostly just stood there with a pained expression while Will rooted around in a torn-open bag of trash to procure one of the chicken bones the dog had been after, before he crouched down to lure the dog closer, making kissing sounds all the while.

Eventually, Will won the dog over, giving it bits of the gristle clinging to the bone while refusing to allow it to have the bone itself. Upon closer inspection, Will discovered that the dog is a _he_ , and that he is mostly healthy, if not a little thin under a thick layer of grime on the street.

Now, Will and the dog are lounging in the back seat, Will scratching the dog’s dirty, floppy ears, while Hannibal drives towards his home. He had given up his suit jacket for the dog to lie on, once Will pointed out the mess of blood and semen their encounter had left it in already, in an effort to protect his seats from any further damage in one night.

“You’re quiet,” Will says into the silence in the car, only broken here and there by the dog’s nervous panting.

“I am attempting not to breathe,” Hannibal replies, eyes glancing up in the rear-view mirror to meet Will’s, looking distinctly unimpressed with the turn their evening has taken, “That creature smells horrendous.”

Hannibal’s blood has heightened his senses enough that Will agrees, and wonders how Hannibal himself is keeping from gagging. But it wouldn’t do to let Hannibal know he agrees, and so he shrugs one shoulder and replies, “I’ll bathe him at your house.”

“ _Outside_ of my house,” Hannibal corrects.

Will cuts his eyes up into the mirror and finds Hannibal practically glaring at him. He smiles at him, lopsided and warm and happy, so happy, and sees Hannibal soften.

Soon enough, they arrive back at Hannibal’s sprawling home. He leaves Hannibal standing there, watching the dog like he is some sort of alien being while the dog traipses around in the small front yard sniffing bushes and flowers. He pilfers Hannibal’s keys and lets himself into the house. When he returns a few moments later with shampoo and towels from the guest bathroom, he finds Hannibal holding his soiled jacket away from him and staring at it like he’s considering burning it, and maybe Will too when he comes close and presses against him, smelling equally as terrible as the dog.

Will leans up to kiss him, and Hannibal seems to forget that he cares, kissing him back just as hungrily on his front lawn in front of any curious neighbors that may be watching as he would behind closed doors. Will pulls away with a smirk, leaving Hannibal staring after him as he clicks his tongue and wanders around the back with the dog trailing along after him obediently in search of a hose.

Half an hour later Will is soaking wet, but the dog is clean and towel-dried and smelling like some godawfully expensive shampoo. After the third wash and rinse, he had revealed himself to be an intriguing brindle color, as well as smart and friendly and seemingly well-behaved, as if he had once belonged to someone before being left out on the streets. He follows Will obediently through the back door and up the stairs, relaxing on the heated floors of the guest bathroom while Will takes a shower. When he wanders through to Hannibal’s bedroom to rummage through the drawer full of clothes Hannibal saw fit to buy for him, he feels the steam and smells the lingering scents of Hannibal’s own shower. Will breathes it in as he pulls on a pair of pajama pants, foregoing a shirt, instead heading towards the stairs.

The lingering soreness he feels makes itself known with each cautious step he takes downwards, but he finds himself smiling inwardly at the reminder, quite unable to believe otherwise that he fucked Hannibal in his car, a scant few steps away from a busy street. It might not have been what Hannibal had imagined for them, but as far as Will is concerned, it was perfect.

So much so, in fact, that he’s already wondering when they can do it again. Soon, he hopes, with a helpless smile curving his lips upward. Soon, and hopefully _often._

For now, he follows his nose, wandering through the dark and lifeless rooms to the heart of Hannibal’s home. The dog follows on his heels, stopping now and then for an investigative sniff, before his own sharp senses register the scent of food and he trots past him, damp and feathery tail held aloft and curled over his back, ears pricked into the warm light that beckons them both into the kitchen.

Will lingers in the doorway, the déjà-vu striking him hard enough that he almost staggers, remembering doing just the same when arriving at Hannibal’s house in the daylight the afternoon before. He was half out of his mind then, and half convinced that he had no choice but to kill the vampire who had so thoroughly pulled the wool over his eyes before tearing it forcefully away. Only a handful of hours have passed since then, but everything has changed, so completely it makes Will’s head spin.

Now it’s the wee hours of the morning, and Hannibal stands at the stove in an obscenely soft-looking red sweater and plaid pajama pants, giving something a gentle stir with a wooden spoon. He turns his head at the sound of the dog’s toenails clicking against the kitchen floor, watching as he comes to sit neatly on his haunches at Hannibal’s feet, tail wagging lazily. Will watches as the two of them size each other up, Hannibal with only mild distaste on his features—no doubt less than pleased to have a dog in his pristine kitchen—while the dog stares up at him, his face upturned towards Hannibal with his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth in an easy, hopeful doggy smile.

Hannibal sighs, and turns away to mess with something on the counter out of Will’s line of sight. Then he shocks the living shit out of Will when he picks up a plateful of steaming food from the counter and sets it on the floor, presenting it to the dog with much of the same flourish as he does for Will himself. The dog gives a yip of thanks and then immediately digs in, and Hannibal tentatively brushes his fingers against his furry skull between his ears and then shakes his head, straightening to return to the counter with an exasperated sigh.

Hannibal looks so _normal_ , feeding the dog with his surprisingly fine-boned feet bare and his hair damp and hanging in his eyes. Will feels as though a tiny sun has settled in the confines of his chest, luminous and vibrant and burning him up from the inside out.

“He will require a name,” Hannibal murmurs, breaking the silence that otherwise has gone on unpunctuated by anything other than the dog gobbling down his first real meal in who knows how long.

Even though he hasn’t so much as glanced in Will’s direction, Will knows he was already well aware of his presence even before he spoke, but the sound of his voice spurs him into movement. His own feet padding against the tile floors, Will makes a beeline towards Hannibal, around the counter to where the man stands, knife in hand, preparing to chop some carrots. He wraps his arms around Hannibal from behind and buries his nose in the nape of his neck, in the soft hair there, still damp and fragrant from his shower.

That feeling is still suffusing him, bringing all kinds of responses to his lips, odes and promises and declarations. When Will finally speaks, his lips are curled into a smile against Hannibal’s skin. “Got any ideas?”

He feels the expansion of Hannibal’s back as he takes a deep breath, and quickly removes the tops of the carrots with one deft flick of his knife. “He strikes me as a Winston,” he replies, and then explains into Will’s answering silence, “There was once a conductor at the Virginia Symphony Orchestra named Winston. I am unsure why he reminds me of him.” There’s another pause, and Will can hear the smile in his voice when he adds, “Perhaps it is the undeniable proof of how well you have played me.”

Will laughs, and buries his achingly wide smile in the space between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. “Conductors don’t play anything,” he murmurs into the soft knit fabric separating his lips from Hannibal’s skin.

“To the contrary,” Hannibal replies, and Will can feel the timbre of his deep voice rolling through him, just as easily as he can feel the gentle rocking motions in his shoulders as he chops the carrots, and he closes his eyes, gets lost in it all too easily. “It could be said that the conductor plays the entire orchestra. They choose what work will be performed and create their own interpretation, guide and direct the various players, and the finished piece is entirely their own creation.”

Will thinks of how Hannibal had stopped immediately in attacking Matthew downstairs earlier, simply from Will’s hand to his chest. He thinks of the power, heady and heavy, that he felt in that moment of understanding, when he realized the depth of his sway over this ancient, powerful creature he has grown to love.

Will swallows hard, lifts his head to kiss the bare skin of Hannibal’s neck, between the collar of his sweater and the soft, feathery strands at his hairline. “Winston it is, then,” he whispers, lips moving against Hannibal’s skin, drinking in the invisible shiver that runs through the other man that he can’t see but can feel, pressed against him as he is. He pulls away, but one hand lingers on Hannibal’s trim waist as he turns to the dog, who has finished licking his plate. “What do you think, boy?” he asks, and the dog lifts his head from the plate he’s just finished licking clean, tilting his head to the side and blinks his large, amber eyes as Will wonders, “Are you a Winston?”

The dog whines and licks his chops loudly at the attention, and Will laughs softly. “I guess that settles that,” he muses. Too bad it’s not as easy to settle everything else. Will looks between the dog and Hannibal, and asks tentatively, “What exactly did you just feed him? Or should I say _who_?”

Hannibal stops his chopping and looks over his shoulder at Will, giving him one of those looks that tells him he’s pushing his luck. Will is all too aware that, as he does this, he’s still holding a rather large knife that gleams in the soft overhead lights, but doesn’t kid himself into thinking Hannibal needs a weapon to do any damage. “Shredded chicken, rice, and snow peas, if you must know,” Hannibal replies dryly, before turning back to his cutting board.

Will steps up beside him, in front of the stove, and peers into the pot that steams at a roiling boil. “What are the carrots for?” he asks, breathing in the scent drifting out of the pot, and despite what he knows of Hannibal’s eating habits, his stomach rumbles loudly at how delicious it smells.

Hannibal doesn’t miss the sound, and looks down at Will’s belly with disapproval. “Your dinner,” he replies, gathering up the carrots—sliced as they are in neat, even coins—between the flat of his palm and the knife’s blade and tosses them into the pot where they sink and then bob up again in the light colored but opaque broth. He wipes his hands on the dishtowel laying on the counter, folding it up once more as he adds, “How long has it been since you have had anything to eat, Will?”

Will tries to come up with an answer, and comes back with nothing. He knows he hasn’t eaten at least since before his ill-fated meeting with the recently departed Matthew in the stairwell of his apartment building, and even then he had only had his thermos of Hannibal’s delicious coffee.

Thinking of the passage of time in such a way makes his head hurt a little. Only a little over twenty-four hours have passed since he stood in the basement of the BAU, realizing what he had been eating while standing over the bodies the meat was procured from. Since then he’s nearly died, was brought back from the brink of death, got the best blowjob of his life, interrogated a vampire and watched Hannibal pop his head off like a champagne bottle cork, saw his doppelganger lying dead in an alleyway and the faces of the creatures responsible for his father’s death, got a dog, and—for god’s sake—broke all sorts of public indecency laws fucking Hannibal in his car on a side street.

Yes, his head _definitely_ hurts a little, and the blood that rushes rapidly from his brain to his dick at the memory of how it felt to have Hannibal inside him doesn’t help matters at all. He must look as lost as he feels, because Hannibal places his dish towel back on the counter and holds out a hand to Will and says simply, “Come here.”

Will goes, taking Hannibal’s hand and allowing him to draw him close, to wrap his strong arms around him and tilt up his chin with his free hand to press his lips against his. The kiss is chaste, and brief, and when it breaks Will presses his forehead against Hannibal’s and takes a moment to simply breathe, maybe for the first time in days, maybe weeks. Maybe for the first time in his adult life, who fucking knows. In the process of breathing, he gets another whiff of whatever is cooking on the stove, and his stomach lets loose another unholy rumble.

“What’s for dinner?” he whispers, raising his eyes to meet Hannibal’s. As close as they are, Will can see the flecks of bloody red mixed in with the warm brown. He’s tempted to tell him his eyes are gorgeous again, but one ode to a set of eyeballs in one night is surely enough.

“Blanquette de veau,” Hannibal answers, pulling away just an inch to better study Will’s face, his fingers rising to pet through Will’s still-damp hair, “A French veal ragout, kept white by not browning either the roux or the meat in the cooking process.”

“What happened to Bopis?” he asks, and swallows thickly at the memory of the set of lungs Hannibal had on the counter when he showed up unannounced the afternoon before.

Hannibal smirks. “I’m afraid the meat wasn’t properly refrigerated,” he says, still watching Will closely, “I do so hate waste, but something came up.”

Yeah, Will supposes, something did. That something was him, showing up in a murderous rage that was dampened far too easily by Hannibal’s beautiful, _dangerous_ mouth on him.

Will gives him a dry look, but doesn’t pull away. “Is there actually any veal in there?” he asks skeptically, peering over Hannibal’s shoulder and into the pot that still simmers on the stovetop, before turning back to look him in the eye.

“No,” Hannibal replies in that simple, honest way of his that Will has always appreciated, even more so now that he knows he’s getting the truth out of him. His dark eyes flicker over Will’s, searching for something, before he asks tentatively, “Does that bother you?”

It definitely _should_ bother him. And it does, to an extent, but it feels entirely hypocritical even in his own mind considering what else he’s condoning by choosing to be with Hannibal, choosing him over all the lives that the man he loves has snuffed out and will snuff out, past, present and future.

When Will pulls away, Hannibal lets him go, and Will doesn’t miss the flash of disappointment on his handsome face when he doesn’t answer right away. He moves past him without a word, going over to the stove and taking up the wooden spoon sitting in the gleaming steel spoon rest in the center of the stove. He gives the stew a stir, belly grumbling loudly yet again at how delicious it smells, how delicious it _looks_ , with the white, creamy broth, the orange of the carrots and pinkish pieces of ‘veal’ peeking through as it swirls.

He takes up a spoonful, blows on it, and takes a tentative sip from it while Hannibal watches, his expression gone completely blank in a way that Will has come to realize means he has no facsimile of human emotion at the ready for the occasion. Will swallows, licks the broth from his lips, and turns back to stir the stew again, not looking at Hannibal as he finally replies, “Yes, it bothers me. But I’m fucking starving, and it seems like we have bigger fish to fry at the moment.”

He turns his head just enough to bring Hannibal in his line of sight, before looking away again, unable to withstand the way Hannibal is looking at him with his eyes glistening again, blank expression replaced by something that is frankly too sappy for Will to even begin to deal with. Hannibal shakes himself after a moment, turns his head to look down at the dog who is laying patiently by his feet, intelligent eyes moving between his new-found masters with lazy interest. “There is more of Winston’s dinner, if you would prefer,” Hannibal says, and his voice is a hoarse wreck.

Will replaces the spoon with more force than necessary, and turns to glare at Hannibal. “I’d _prefer_ it if you’d finish this so I can eat,” he replies, unable to help but smile at the flare in Hannibal’s eyes at his cheek. All the same, Hannibal moves back to the stove, and Will draws a hand across the breadth of his shoulders as he moves past him, forgoing sitting in the armchair to drop on the floor beside Winston. Immediately, the dog puts his head in Will’s lap and looks up at him adoringly, and Will smiles down at him and obliges his silent plea for attention, burying his fingers in the dog’s damp ruff, petting him absently as he watches Hannibal obediently finish cooking his dinner.

After a moment, and without looking at him, Hannibal raises a brow and makes a noise deep in his throat. “I can hear you thinking again,” he says, while carefully adding a pinch of sea salt to the pot, “Ask your questions, Will, before they rattle out of your skull.”

Will hardly knows where to start, but for some reason, the first thing out of his mouth is is, “Tell me about you and Alana.”

The only reaction Will gets is the barest lift at one corner of Hannibal’s lips, and Will scowls, knowing he’s caught out, and that Hannibal is privy to the hint of jealousy Will felt back at the crime scene. “Just as she said,” Hannibal replies evenly, “I was her mentor, nearly a decade ago. I have appearances in my current profession to keep up, Will.”

Will digests that, and ultimately decides that if he’s in for a penny with Hannibal already knowing his every thought, he might as well be in for a pound. He leans back, placing one hand on the cold floor behind him, and Winston lolls onto his back, all four feet up in the air. “Did you fuck her?” he asks, as casually as he’s able, which isn’t very casually at all.

The other corner of Hannibal’s mouth lifts up as he moves to take down a shallow but wide bowl from one of the kitchen’s many cabinets. “That wouldn’t be very ethical, now would it?” he asks, his tone teasing.

Will’s fingers have gone tight in Winston’s fur, and he forces them to loosen, petting through it instead as he answers sarcastically, “Way to avoid the question, Mister _Ethical_ Vampire-slash-Cannibal.”

Hannibal is smiling now, for real, and Will can’t help but admire what a lovely sight it is. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive, for your information,” he says patiently, as he ladles some of the stew into the bowl. When he’s done, he finally meets Will’s eyes. “Alana is refreshingly bright, an interesting conversationalist, and I certainly appreciate her beauty, aesthetically speaking,” he says, “Which is all the more reason why we have never been intimate.” The way the word _intimate_ rolls off his tongue makes all the fine hairs on Will’s body stand at attention, and his blood once again threaten a detour to his dick. Hannibal must feel the spike of lust through their bonded blood, because he smiles again, satisfied, his eyes darkening as he purrs, “You, my beautiful boy, are the exception to my rule. I am afraid no one else I’ve allowed to see even a fraction of what you know has lived to tell the tale.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that, really, since he doesn’t want to voice just how disturbingly happy that makes him to hear. “Like a praying mantis?” he says instead, playful.

Hannibal sighs. “You truly are a terror,” he says, fetching a spoon before gathering up the bowl of stew and taking it to the kitchen island and commanding, “Come eat your dinner.”

Will laughs and gives Winston one final pet, and then climbs to his feet. The dog follows, curling up around the bar stool’s four peg legs after Hannibal pulls it out from the counter for and promptly begins to snore. Hannibal glances down at Winston like he can’t quite believe this is his life, now—a feeling Will can certainly relate to—before looking back up to Will with more of that exasperated fondness.

Will smirks and settles into his seat, and then winces as their earlier activities cause him a twinge of discomfort as he does so. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Hannibal, of course, but all he does is reach out to tug on one of Will’s wayward curls affectionately and then crosses the room. He reaches up into another cabinet to take down two wine glasses, before opening the small refrigerator filled with wine below the counter, his brow wrinkling for a moment as he contemplates his selection. Meanwhile, Will spreads the linen napkin on his lap and takes up his spoon.

“So,” he asks, eyes on the stew as he sticks his spoon in and gathers up a mouthful, making sure to fish out a carrot and a piece of ‘veal’ in the process, “What was Alana’s deal then? She was so happy to see you at first, and then things got really...weird.”

Hannibal only answers after twisting a screw into the cork on his wine choice, pulling it free and bringing it to his nose for a deep sniff, before pouring something dark and red into the two glasses he procured. “I imagine she was rather shocked to realize I am a vampire,” he says, and adds casually just as Will brings a spoonful of the piping hot stew to his mouth, “Just as I was rather surprised to realize she is a werewolf.”

Will’s first bite goes directly down the wrong pipe, and he drops his spoon back into his bowl with a splash and loud clatter. “A _w_ _hat_?” he manages to gasp out, between coughs and pounding a fist against his chest. Hannibal, leaned against the counter opposite from him with the stem of his wine glass held delicately between his slender fingers, merely raises a fair brow and takes a sip as Will nearly chokes right to death on the spot, on a hunk of human flesh, no less. If the oxygen supply to his brain wasn’t quickly depleting, Will would perhaps wonder if it isn’t any less than he deserves.

“A werewolf, Will,” Hannibal repeats, as if Will is simply slow on the uptake, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Winston, who has been roused from his nap by the commotion and risen to his feet, beginning to bark at Will in concern.

“Werewolves aren’t—” Will wheezes, then stops abruptly as Hannibal—a vampire, he reminds himself, for fuck’s entire sake—merely arches that same irritating brow higher. Will holds up his hand, wordlessly stopping a vampire from telling a necromancer how absurd it is to deny the existence of something that sounds like they’re lifted from some badly written made-for-TV science-fiction movie, because if he does, Will’s head might explode. With one more strong thump of his knuckles against his chest, he manages to clear his airway and breathes deep, regroups, and says in a hoarse voice, “Werewolves are real.”

“Quite,” Hannibal replies, smirking even as he takes a small sip of his wine. Will has _quite_ reached his limit of storing away Brand New Information over the last several days, and doesn’t _quite_ have room for this revelation. Hannibal must get tired of his gaping, because he nods towards Will’s bowl and tells him, “Your dinner is getting cold.”

Eating seems a simple enough task to accomplish, and so he takes up his spoon, makes a soothing sound in Winston’s direction and watches as the surprisingly well-behaved dog lays down at his feet, and then tucks in to his meal. With no shocking revelations to surprise him half to death, his first bite goes down more smoothly this time, and even though he knows he shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he does, the stew is absolutely delicious. He thinks to say so, but at first his mouth is full with his second and then third spoonful, and by the time he finishes chewing the meat in his mouth and swallowing, more questions have bubbled up to the surface.

“Why tonight?” he asks, stirring the bowl with his spoon and watching as Hannibal blinks at him, waiting on a more complete question. “If you’ve known each other for so long,” he elaborates, “Why did you and Alana just figure everything out tonight?”

Hannibal glances down at his glass as he swirls the garnet-colored liquid within. “Alana and I have not crossed paths in several years,” he explains, voice thoughtful, “And the last time we did, she was purely human.”

Will’s eyebrows knit together, and he takes another bite of his food, watching Hannibal as he chews. He swallows, the stew sitting warm and comforting in his belly despite everything, and asks, “How’d you know she changed?”

“I could smell it on her,” Hannibal replies, placing his glass on the counter before crossing the room to fetch Will’s mostly empty bowl. Will’s eyes follow him as he crosses back to the stove, and ladles more stew into the bowl before making his way back to Will’s side.

“How does it smell?” Will asks, lifting his eyes to meet Hannibal’s as he comes closer, testing out the word he’s only heard of in a fictional setting before now, “Lycanthropy?”

“Somewhat...distasteful,” he answers slowly, pondering. His fingers brush along Will’s shoulders and settle between his shoulder blades, wide and warm from holding the heated porcelain of the bowl, and stay there as he places the dish back in front of Will. “There is a lingering odor that hangs in the air around them, reminiscent of wet dog,” he says, leaning in to sniff the base of Will’s neck, pulling back while Will shivers from the brush of his nose against the sensitive stretch of skin and smiles as he adds, “An odor that is currently lingering around _you_ , I might add, albeit for more innocuous reasons.”

Will smiles and waves him away, and tucks back into his dinner. Despite Hannibal’s complaints about the way he, _apparently_ , smells like wet Winston, he lingers at Will’s side, still touching him and watching him closely as he eats.

“What happened to her?” Will asks finally as he finishes, mouth full and still chewing his last delicious bite as he plucks up the linen napkin in his lap to wipe his mouth and his hands and then setting it on the counter beside the bowl.

Hannibal reaches out to brush his fingers against Will’s bulging cheek as he chews, thumb scraping against his three-day-old beard, like he can’t help himself. Will narrows his eyes, knowing that he’s enjoying watching Will eat one of his kills—knowingly, for the first time—a little _too_ much. He smirks, and drops his hand, instead taking up his empty bowl and spoon. “I couldn’t say with any certainty,” he replies, his eyes lingering for a moment like he’s committing the image to his mind to file away forever, and then turns away, heading towards the sink. “Lycans are turned, but not in the same way vampires are,” he explains as he pushes up his sleeves and turns on the water and begins to wash up—an awfully mundane task to watch a vampire undergo. “They are still living, breathing humans, possessing only heightened senses—which is no doubt how she knew what I am—and a modicum of heightened strength, outside of the one night they experience the change.”

Will stops watching him to instead put his elbows on the counter and press his face into his hands, because this is honestly too much. “So, somewhere in these past few years she was...what? Scratched by a werewolf?” he mutters into his palms, and raises his head long enough to see Hannibal nod to the affirmative, “And now once a month she gets furry and runs around howling at the moon?”

“More or less,” Hannibal says over his shoulder. He’s scrubbing the pot he cooked in rather vigorously, and Will folds his arms on the counter and rests his cheek against them to watch, distracted momentarily by the flex of muscle in his arms.

His exhaustion is catching up with him, and although he hasn’t given it much thought until that moment with so many other things occupying his mind, his abdomen still aches from the damage fucking _Matthew_ did to him the night before. He blinks lazily, contemplating the fact that he’s happy the bastard vampire is dead and watching Hannibal, until he’s done thinking about Matthew and goes back to thinking about Alana Bloom.

“Poor Jack,” he says finally with a sardonic chuckle, “He can’t let himself believe vampires are real, and yet he has a vampire _and_ a werewolf consulting on cases with him.” Hannibal only hums in response, still scrubbing away, but hearing the words said out loud causes Will to wonder, “Do you think her reasons for working with the FBI are as nefarious as yours?”

Hannibal doesn’t bother to argue the fact that his reasons are nefarious, and says instead, “Perhaps.”

He says it in a way that seems off the cuff and indifferent, but there’s something in his voice that catches Will’s attention. He lifts his head once more, leaving his arms on the counter beneath him, and looks, really _looks._ Hannibal’s back is mostly to him, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth now that the dishes are finished and drying on a rack by the sink. His expression, when Will gets a glimpse of it in profile, seems merely apathetic, but Will takes in the way his lips are pressed together, the set of his broad shoulders.

“You’re upset that she was changed,” Will says into the silence. It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact, as it is when he adds, “You’re _angry_.” Hannibal doesn’t turn to look at him or answer, only folds his dishcloth, over and over again, until it makes a neat, tiny little square and then places it with far more care than necessary at the edge of the sink. Will tilts his head as he watches this, much in the same way Winston did earlier when Will spoke to him, absorbing Hannibal’s expression, his movements, his body language, and reading him as easily as Hannibal can read him now with the cheat-sheet that is their bonded blood. “Do all vampires hate werewolves, or just you?” he asks.

With nothing left to busy himself with, Hannibal is forced to face him, but doesn’t meet his eyes. He sighs, and moves to the kitchen island were Will sits, taking up the bottle of wine. “Historically, we do not get along, and do not occupy the same spaces,” he says, as he replaces the cork in the neck of the bottle, and then carefully working the corkscrew free.

“Historically,” Will repeats, watching his hands, his wrists, the flex of muscle and tendon, the stretch of pale skin, the veins barely visible and dark beneath. The man truly is a work of art, and Will longs to touch, but he knows if he does they’ll end up back in bed again before he can get the answers he’s been trying to get all night. He sighs, and keeps his own hands to himself as he says, “Your use of ‘historically’ implies an exception.”

There’s something in Hannibal’s eyes when he finally glances up at him that makes something else click into place. Will is surprised that Hannibal can’t hear it, because when it happens, it sounds like a gunshot in his mind, the reverberations of it echoing off the walls of his skull.

He doesn’t know yet, cannot see yet how it’s all connected, but he knows with sudden surety and clarity that it is, without a doubt. Vampires and werewolves. The differences between the vampires like Hannibal and the ones he’s been chasing his whole life. The sharp teeth, meant more for rending and tearing than just biting; mindless animals without a shred of humanity left in them.

Will sighs. “Let me guess,” he says slowly, tiredly, “The exception is Mason?”

Hannibal nods, and Will nods too. Climbs to his feet and sighs again for good measure.

“I’m going need a fucking drink.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is finally about to get some answers. It’s all he’s wanted since everything began to unravel, as if he had unknowingly tugged on a stray thread that night when he first climbed in the car with Jack Crawford at the graveyard. Probably before, since he’s most likely about to learn that the frayed thread came loose long before, around the time that his father was killed. Maybe even centuries before he was even born, since that thread seems to be wound inextricably around one belonging to the vampire he can hear moving around downstairs.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Hannibal and Will whisper secrets in the near darkness, as they are wont to do.

 

Will retires to the bedroom while Hannibal fetches his fucking drink.

Winston follows Will, tail wagging and curious, and shadows him as he sets about making a fire for want of something constructive to do with his hands, if only because he knows if he takes a seat on one of the plush chairs behind him—or even worse, the rather inviting-looking bed—he will most definitely fall directly to sleep. He thinks this, because he is well and truly exhausted, but at the same time he’s practically vibrating with energy—to the point that his hands shake finely as he piles a few logs in the grate over a small stack of kindling, then strikes one of the long matches, bringing to its end a tiny, glowing flame.

He is finally about to get some answers. It’s all he’s wanted since everything began to unravel, as if he had unknowingly tugged on a stray thread that night when he first climbed in the car with Jack Crawford at the graveyard. Probably before, since he’s most likely about to learn that the frayed thread came loose long before, around the time that his father was killed. Maybe even centuries before he was even born, since that thread seems to be wound inextricably around one belonging to the vampire he can hear moving around downstairs.

He should be happy, excited even, to know he’s finally going to get what he wanted, but instead all he feels is an all-consuming sense of dread.

He’s still feeling it strongly when Hannibal joins him a few moments later, after he’s run out of fire-related things to do and has finally accepted his fate and collapsed into one of the chairs. When he meets the vampire’s eyes as he walks in the room with a heavy crystal tumbler of whiskey in his hand, it’s obvious by the look on his face that Hannibal feels it too. He isn’t sure if Hannibal is just feeding off Will’s trepidation through their bond, or if he’s feeling his own, but when Hannibal comes to stand at his feet and hands him the glass and their fingers brush in passing, Will realizes it hardly matters anymore.

They are, he supposes, in this together now.

Where Will had plopped in his chair, Hannibal gracefully folds himself down into the one opposite. Will watches as Hannibal extends a hand, allowing Winston to sniff inquisitively at his fingers and contemplates again just how much has changed in such a short period of time. Will remembers seeing through Matthew’s eyes in the few minutes he occupied his mind the way he had looked as the vampire had spied on him, on _them_ , watching through the window as they sat in the sitting room below them, much as they are now—by firelight, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He thinks of how he saw himself looking at Hannibal, like he was both lost and found at the same time, at that moment when he began to realize the depth of his feelings for him.

Then, he had only thought the other man was just that...a _man_. Now he knows better, and god, if he doesn’t love him still. Will’s body is already tilted towards Hannibal’s like a flower in the shade seeking sun, and he allows his head to follow, turning his gaze to watch Hannibal as he watches Will take a long, slow sip of his drink with eyes the same rich, warm color of the whiskey in his glass. It tastes faintly of honey on his tongue, and Hannibal’s eyes drop to watch him chase the taste of it on his lips, those eyes darkening in hunger he doesn’t bother to hide, not anymore. Will realizes that his window of opportunity to get the information he wants is narrowing by the second if _someone_ doesn’t hurry up and break the thick, heavy silence that’s settled around them.

“You said you knew about Cordell,” he says softly, tearing his eyes away to look down at his glass, then at Winston who is trying his best to sniff his way into it. He redirects him from his quest by distracting him with a few scratches beneath his speckled chin, a faint blush blooming on his cheeks as he adds, “In the car, before.”

In the edges of his vision, Will sees Hannibal nod his head. “I know many things about that creature,” he says, spitting out the word _creature_ in a way that lets Will know what he really thinks. He continues, his voice low and rumbling in the near darkness, lit only by the flames from the fire nearby, “But I did not know he was the one that took your father from you, Will. This new-found knowledge of the pain he inflicted upon you is yet another reason why I will gladly see him finally dead.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. _New-found knowledge_. Will’s fingers have stilled against Winston, much to the dog’s dismay, and he can’t help the way he is practically gaping at Hannibal. “You didn’t know?” he asks, his voice suddenly gone hoarse, and not from the lingering burn of the whiskey he he’s drinking, “You didn’t know he killed my dad?”

Hannibal’s expression had gone impassive and stony as he spoke of the other vampire, but now it softens. He tilts his head, brow furrowing ever so slightly. “Of course not,” he says, and almost looks taken aback at the thought, “I had no way of knowing which one of them killed him, Will, and if I did, I would not keep that information from you.”

Will is still frozen, staring, trying to make sense of this. He had been sure, _so_ sure. “But you said—” he starts, and shakes his head, trying to clear it and failing, before he tries again, “But you said, in the car...”

“You asked if I knew about him,” Hannibal murmurs when Will’s words continue to fail him, leaving his mouth opening and closing in a way he’s sure is quite reminiscent of a goldfish, “I know of his existence. All too well, in fact.” Hannibal pauses, looks at Will in that way of his that makes Will feel seen down to the very atoms that create the space he takes up. Will can see the thoughts flicker like the firelight across his face, viewing everything that transpired in a new light. He swallows harshly, and then whispers, “You thought I...and you still—”

Forgave him even that, no matter how fucking crazy that must make him. Fucked him. Poured every ounce of the love he still felt for him, knowing what he thought he knew, into every kiss, through their half-bonded blood.

This time it seems it’s Hannibal that’s been rendered mute, and so Will whispers simply just as he did earlier in the car in response to Hannibal’s declarations, “Yes.” Because how could he possibly explain it, if he had to? Perhaps naming it madness, the way Hannibal had his own feelings for Will. Or just acceptance of who he is, what he is, just as Hannibal has accepted him.

Hannibal is still looking at him like he’s a wonder to him. Will extends a hand, and Hannibal comes, rising as gracefully from his seat as he folded himself into it. His fingers slide over Will’s and hold as he settles onto the chair’s attached ottoman, close enough that their knees press together. Will cradles his hand in his own, and then raises it up to press his cheek against Hannibal’s palm. It’s cool and dry, and when Will closes his eyes and concentrates, his senses—heightened from Hannibal’s blood—can pick up on the smell of his fancy dish soap, the scent of herbs that he cooked with, and perhaps strongest of all, Will can smell what he vaguely recognizes as the scent of his own skin there from where Hannibal had touched him lingeringly in the kitchen.

His touch, his scent, is like a balm, and coupled with the way Hannibal’s thumb strokes first his jaw and then the outline of his upper lip like he is something precious, Will finds the strength to open his eyes once more and meet Hannibal’s, squarely, to face everything that he sees there. And what he sees there could fill books of poetry and epics, and Will reels with the power of knowing that he could ask anything of this creature, _anything_ , and have it handed to him instantly.

Winston, who has given up on being the center of attention and abandoned them both to each other in favor of curling up in front of the fire, breaks the charged silence that has once again descended upon them with a loud, sleepy sigh. Will blinks, breaking their heady eye contact long enough that he’s able to look away, casting a fond look in the dog’s direction to thank him for setting him back on track.

He still holds onto Hannibal’s hand, though, soft and cool and soothing against his fire-warm cheek. He turns his gaze back, meeting Hannibal’s warm, dark, multifaceted gaze and holds it, trying to organize all his thoughts and questions and failing miserably, and settles simply on asking what seems to be the most pressing question instead.

“What are they?” he asks, “Cordell and Matthew and the others?”

Hannibal takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring finely. He doesn’t pull his hand away from Will, instead reaching across himself with the other to take Will’s drink from where he holds it loosely in the fingers of his free hand. Will watches him as he drinks, placing his lips—perhaps by accident, perhaps on purpose since he seems to rarely do anything by happenstance—against the same spot on the glass where Will’s own sealed when he took his own drink. He watches as Hannibal takes a sip, savors, and then swallows, and wonders if he is able to get any fortification from it. Hopes that he can.

“They are...mistakes. Abominations of nature,” he says as he passes the glass back to Will, his eyes following the movement of their conjoined hands as Will lowers them to his lap. “Cordell was the first. He was born human, of course, and was at some point in his life changed into a werewolf,” he continues, “I am not sure how or when he first crossed paths with Mason, only that by the time they crossed _my_ path, Cordell was Mason’s most prized possession. His pet werewolf. Mason has always very much enjoys a rare toy to play with.”

Will swallows hard at that last bit, at the bitterness with which it was spoken, because it sounds as though Hannibal is speaking from experience. He takes another sip of his whiskey, hoping for the same fortification he wished on Hannibal, and then asks cautiously, “What happened? When they crossed your path?”

Hannibal’s eyes had been on the middle distance, staring unfocused somewhere between where they sit and the fire Winston is curled up in front of, dead asleep now. At his question, though, he looks at Will, really _looks_ at him, and asks softly, “What did you see?”

Will knows he’s referring to the moments he spent inside Will’s head, in the kitchen, when Hannibal had insisted that he look, that he _see_. The boldest and brightest of those thoughts, those memories, were of Will himself, but it’s in the shadows and darkness that Will pulls from now, wetting his lips and furrowing his brow as he searches for the words to do what he saw and felt some shred of justice.

“I saw flashes of your beginning,” he whispers, his voice low in the quiet. “I saw a forest, old and seemingly endless. It was so cold, colder than I’ve ever felt before, and you were _so_ hungry.” He pauses, and looks down at their joined hands, rubbing his thumb over Hannibal’s knuckles as he adds softly, “That, I have felt before.” He falls silent for a moment, lost in the flashes of memory that are far older than he can even begin to fathom, but still so clear, clearer than the crystal of the glass in his hand. He stares down at it, now, watches the light from the flames catch in the amber-colored liquid and turn it red, so red, contrasting sharply with his own pale skin stretched over the hand that’s wrapped around the glass. “The snow was deep and pristine white, undisturbed,” he goes on, “Until the blood started to spill. Great gouts of blood, arterial spray. More than a single body can spare.” He pauses, and then asks quietly without looking up at Hannibal, “Was it yours?”

Hannibal makes a soft sound, almost reminiscent of a laugh, and Will does look up then to find his eyes unfocused again, lost in the past, but with a tired but somewhat proud semblance of a smile curling just the corners of his lips. “No,” he answers plainly, “Not all of it, anyway. It was Cordell’s.”

Will blinks, and raises both eyebrows. “What happened?” he asks, when Hannibal doesn’t elaborate on his own.

Hannibal glances at him then, and what little amusement was there drains before Will’s eyes. Instead, he looks almost wary, almost...haunted. Will feels a stab of fear at the sight. Hannibal is, all things considered, a rather annoyingly cheerful vampire—and Will fears whatever it is, whatever memory has given him that look. Even more so because he knows that the cause, or causes, are still out there, a threat hanging over them like a dark cloud.

Will drains the rest of his whiskey in one go, sets the empty glass on the table beside him, and adds his newly freed hand to the tangle of fingers in his lap, holding Hannibal’s hand between both of his. It seems absurd, to offer comfort to such a deadly creature in such a way, but it feels right to do so in the moment, and so he simply does. He remembers Hannibal’s hesitation earlier that night to speak of Mason at all, much less specific events; remembers thinking of his own closely guarded secrets, and how difficult it is for him to let go of them, even though he’s held them close to his chest for a mere fraction of the time that Hannibal has.

And so, he waits, turns and stares into the flickering flames of the fire, watches Winston snoozing obliviously in its comforting warmth, to give the other man the illusion of space. Waits so long that his eyes have drifted closed, comfortably hunkered down between Hannibal’s body and the plush cradle of the chair as he is, before Hannibal finally begins to speak.

“My tribe was small,” he murmurs, and Will opens his eyes in surprise. He finds Hannibal staring off into the middle-distance again, wandered somewhere in his mind where Will worries he can’t reach him. “Hardly more than group of nomads, really, trying to carve out some semblance of a life where we could, for however long we could. The land was frozen and wind-worn and inhospitable. Each day was a grueling search for food, for shelter. It was a harsh life, and most didn’t survive birth, and those that did suffered for it greatly.” Hannibal’s already unplaceable accent has gone thick, his words slow and careful, as if just speaking of that time, of those memories in English is nearly insurmountable, leaving him stumbling over certain consonants in a way Will has never heard happen to him before.

Perhaps it's that, or the glimpse Will has seen of the place where Hannibal was born, or just a product of an overactive imagination, but either way he can feel himself being transported back to a time and place that predates civilization as he knows it. He can almost feel the thick snow crunching under his feet, feel the soft whisper of furs against skin pebbled from the cold, the heat of a fire, the scent of a hard-won morsel of meat being cooked over it. “I was only a boy, then,” Hannibal whispers, and as he speaks Will’s mental image transforms, shifting to accommodate that harsh world as it would have been seen through the eyes of a child, dark and fox-like, quiet and serious and wickedly intelligent. “A sickness spread through our camp, deep in the midst of a particularly harsh winter,” he goes on, his voice melodic and soft, “My mother and father both succumbed to it quickly, as did over well half of our group. So many died that we had not the resources to burn them, and so instead we moved on, leaving them where they lay. Those that remained look after us well enough, but in truth, she was all I had left.”

“Mischa,” Will whispers, softly, reverently.

Hannibal hums a sound of assent in his chest and looks away, back into the fire. “She was hardly more than a babe,” Hannibal says quietly, “There had been many infants before her, between us, but none of them survived.” He smiles then, small and so, so sad, and Will’s heart aches, _aches_. “I watched her come into the world,” he says, “I held her in my hands, tiny and pink and wet and bellowing in her outrage at entering a world so cold and bleak, and loved her so fiercely, so completely, I thought I would die from it. And that was before she grew, and began to laugh and to sing. She was a joy in a joyless place, to me, to everyone that knew her.”

Hannibal falls silent, and Will struggles to come up with something to say besides how he wishes he had gotten the chance to know the child that meant so much to Hannibal, knows how absurd of a wish that is to make. Instead, he says softly, “I’m happy you had her. Had that.”

“As am I,” Hannibal replies hoarsely, “Selfishly, perhaps, since had she never had existed, she would never have suffered the way that she did.” Will strokes his thumb over the backs of Hannibal’s knuckles, a small, meaningless show of comfort because he hasn’t the faintest idea of what to say or what else to do, and waits out his strangled silence until he begins to speak again.

“I barely kept us alive that winter,” Hannibal says softly, “And only then, to be found by chance by Mason.” Will tenses up beside him, and this time it’s Hannibal that smooths his thumb over Will’s palm, each stroke loosening the rigid set of his shoulders, bit by bit. “Back then, vampires lived and traveled and hunted in nests. Much later, it became safer to be solitary. But at that time, those like me were pack animals. And the pack that Mason belonged to descended on our camp and slaughtered everyone that had managed to survive the sickness.”

Will sees it, even if he doesn’t want to: the carnage, the bodies, the blood that wasn’t consumed flowing like rivers through the snow until it froze into it. He hears it: the screams, the pleas for mercy in a language he cannot speak, but understands the sentiments all the same. He’s heard it, seen it a hundred times in a hundred different minds, and he trembles at how real it feels until he feels a strong arm wrap around him, pull him in close.

Will rests his forehead against the curve of Hannibal’s throat and breathes, until all he can smell is Hannibal and not the scent of snow and pine trees and death. His cheek is resting against Hannibal’s chest, and it rises and falls beneath him, and Will wonders if Hannibal is simply helping him regulate his own breathing or if he’s so caught up in the story he tells of his human life that he feels the need to breathe as he did back then.

It doesn’t matter, he decides. He wraps an arm across Hannibal’s belly, digs his fingers into his sweater and his waist beneath it and holds on as Hannibal’s chest rises once more with an intake of breath and then forces himself to go on. “I tried to flee, but the snow was deep and carrying Mischa in my arms made me far too slow,” he whispers, fingers trailing up and down the curve of Will’s bare arm, “I tried to hide, but she was so afraid, and I could not keep her quiet. Mason found us a short time later, and tried to take her from me. I fought him, viciously, but it was folly; I was just a child myself and he was so strong, so powerful...”

Will remembers what Hannibal said earlier about Mason liking to keep pets, the way Hannibal had said it, and swallows hard against a sudden rush of nausea. “He was amused by you,” he hears himself saying, his face half buried in Hannibal’s soft, warm sweater, “And so he kept you.”

He feels Hannibal nod against his hair, and when he shifts, Will leans back to watch as he reaches up and tugs down the neck of his sweater. His fingers brush against the small white scar at his throat that Will’s own had touched only a few short hours before. “One of his savages. His little wolf, he called me,” Hannibal says, tone bitter in a way Will has never heard from him before, “He kept me collared and chained accordingly.”

Will swallows thickly again, his eyes falling to where Hannibal’s fingers still linger, sees the scar for what it is in his mind’s eye: where a heavy iron collar sat and pinched and chafed and tore at his flesh over and over, deep enough that even the change he underwent couldn’t smooth it away completely. “For how long?” Will asks, his voice shaky and hoarse, “How long did he keep you?”

“Until I died,” Hannibal answers, and Will blinks hard at him, at his permanently middle-aged face, and knows then with certainty that Hannibal was enslaved by Mason for longer than he has even been alive.

“What did he do to you?” Will asks thinly, his hands tightening over Hannibal to ensure himself that he is here with him now, and whole.

“When I was still young, I was starved and beaten into some semblance of submission,” Hannibal answers, his voice somewhat mechanical, “Fed on, by Mason and by whoever else he chose to share me with, drained within an inch of my life almost nightly, but wasn’t allowed to die. When I was older, Mason discovered he greatly enjoyed watching his captives fight to the death. When I had killed them all, he found more, called in the creatures he called his friends to bring their pets, to show off his savage and what he could do. I was his champion, but even still, I was left in the care of Cordell, who was in charge of managing all his other pets.” Hannibal’s lip twitches in a snarl as he adds, “Cordell, who was more of an animal during the rest of the month than he was during the full moon.”

Will can see it, what Hannibal was capable of, even when he was human. It’s written in his body that has remained frozen in time for a thousand years. It’s easier than Will would have thought it would be to imagine Hannibal as he was then, skin flushed with blood that was pumped through his veins by a heart that still beat, eyes dark and wild, teeth sharp and power waiting to be unleashed in every sharp, hard-won cut of muscle. How vicious he must have been, long before being turned into a monster, to have fought and won against so many, to survive as long as he did.

But there’s a portion of his tale that is missing, and its absence is dark and ominous and terrifying. “What about—” Will starts to ask breathlessly, suffused with dread, but he can’t say her name. Not now, not with the way he feels he knows what is coming.

Hannibal’s eyes drop to his lap. Will’s heart is in his throat. “She was taken from me, the night we arrived at Mason’s camp,” he answers, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Kept close enough that I could hear her screaming for days, but could never reach her. I tried, but I was starving, and drained of blood, and far too weak.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and when he speaks it’s so quietly Will has to strain to hear him, and when he does Hannibal’s words cause his vision to dim around the edges with mounting horror and borrowed grief. “It was some time later,” he says, “Long after her screams had gone silent and when I was on the brink of death, that Cordell brought her back to me.”

“ _You ate someone, and got a taste for it.”_

“ _Remarkable boy.”_

Will doesn’t realize he’s crying until Hannibal is cupping his face, smoothing away the few tears that have managed to fall with his thumb, until he acknowledges the jerky, gasping sobs he vaguely recognizes as his own. His dinner is suddenly sitting like lead in his belly, and he momentarily thinks he may vomit, but his hands are gripping Hannibal’s wrists and he’s staring into his eyes and he swallows hard against the nausea, unwilling to let it force him to look away.

He’s frozen, steeped in the knowledge of what Hannibal lived through, what has driven him to live over a thousand years embroiled in his need for revenge. What created the particular brand of monster that Will knows and has grown to love. To love so fiercely that the thought of Hannibal walking away from his quest to avenge his sister, to avenge the boy he once was so long ago who was so irrevocably changed by what happened to him, as he swore a few hours before he wants to do to protect him is a thought so abhorrent Will feels another sick twist in his gut.

Because for all their differences, in the end, they are just alike. They are both men who were once boys who had everything taken from them, ripped away cruelly, by the same two men.

Will doesn’t offer Hannibal any comfort other than his touch, no words of apology that would ring hollow after all the time that has passed. Instead, when he breaks the silence, he asks in a voice that’s gone rough from the tears that are no longer falling but instead are lodged in his throat like stone, “What did you do?”

Hannibal’s hands are still on his face, cool and soothing despite the warmth of the room. Will has somehow ended up half in his lap, now, and his softly spoken words arrive in a flutter of cool breath against his cheeks. “I waited,” he answers softly, simply, his accent thickened with the heaviness of his words, with the weight of a thousand years crawling by, spent waiting again. “Fighting, feasting on the flesh of the others I killed in the ring.” He pauses, his eyes drifting over Will’s face for a moment, and something he sees there causes him to tell him plainly, “What I am has very little to do with my change, Will. I was cruel, bloodthirsty, _violent_ as a human. You cannot blame my human nature on vampirism.”

Will studies those warm-blood eyes, his own stormy blue flickering back and forth between them. Those same eyes the child he once was wore before he was changed into something _other_ , long before he was changed into what he is now. “I know _exactly_ who to blame,” Will answers, his voice roughened by grief for that boy who never got a chance to be anything but cruel and bloodthirsty, for the little girl who never got a chance to even _live_.

Hannibal holds his eyes for a moment, and then nods slowly, accepting. “I waited,” he repeats, “For decades, biding my time. Surviving. Planning the end.” He smiles then, and it’s an eerie sight, a hollow expression. “I convinced one of the vampires in Mason’s nest to take pity on me. One night, I found the door to my cage left slightly ajar. I killed my guards, pried off my shackles. I sought out Cordell and found him, itching and restless with the coming change under the light of a nearly full moon.”

He smiles then, just barely, hardly more than a twitch of his lips, and whispers softly, “We fought viciously, but in the end, I tore out his throat with my teeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beautiful friends, please forgive me for having to end this here. this is the first half of a chapter that was 15k words long, and that was just Too Much. I promise that the next chapter....uh...makes up for it. and then some. hence the length getting completely out of control. heh.
> 
> as always, thank you all so very much for your kudos, and most importantly, your comments. no matter how short or how long, no matter how silly or how serious, getting that little alert on my phone makes my heart do a flippity-flop in the best way to know someone took the time out of their busy life to say hello to little ole me 💕
> 
> also! if you haven't seen it already, I wrote a little [**something**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375821) for the Hannibal Creative's #itsstillbeautiful fest. I know our Hannibal here is technically an old man, but this is _actual_ old man Hannibal. And his actual old man husband. being grumpy actual old men together. featuring art from [wholeanddeadly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly)! take a look!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is chaos in Hannibal's dark eyes, his chest rising and falling in an irregular pattern, like he’s struggling for breath even though he doesn’t need it. He looks undone, completely, and Will knows he did this to him, _does_ this to him.
> 
> He thinks of addiction again, of his power over this monster; realizes again he doesn’t care if it eats him alive.
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will stumbles deeper into the halls of Hannibal's mind, and brings something back with him.

_He smiles then, just barely, hardly more than a twitch of his lips, and whispers softly, “We fought viciously, but in the end, I tore out his throat with my teeth.”_

Will blinks at this, and in the single second that his eyes are closed sees Cordell’s face as he saw it the night his father was killed. Sees both he and Mason as he saw them earlier that night, through the eyes of the dead man whose only crime was to bear a passing resemblance to the man they actually sought.

A thousand years have passed since the night Hannibal speaks of, when the werewolf that tormented him was brought to what should have been his end. But it _wasn’t_ , and Will can’t make sense of the fact that Cordell somehow lived on, surviving as long as Hannibal has, tormenting countless others along the way.

Will is one of those others, since even though they have never truly met, the same creature that shaped Hannibal’s life has similarly shaped his own. He is the frayed thread wound through time from then until now, tying them together in some intrinsic way that is far too incomprehensible for Will to truly begin to process.

He has to try, though. For his father, for himself.

And so, he opens his eyes again, and looks at Hannibal over the few inches between them. He’s still half in his lap, legs in a careless sprawl across the seat they share, his fingers still wrapped tightly in the deep burgundy knitted fabric of Hannibal’s sweater as if, were he to let go, Hannibal would be sucked back into the past where he came from and be lost to Will forever. His eyes keep catching the light from the fire, causing them to blaze red for a split second before shadow returns to turn them black, back and forth, back and forth, in a hypnotizing way Will could easily get lost in, if he let himself.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers helplessly, because he doesn’t; doesn’t understand how all of this lines up, how the specters of Hannibal’s past align with his, with the nightmares of their shared present.

Hannibal doesn’t offer him any explanation this time. Instead, he reaches down and carefully pries Will’s fingers free where they cling to him, gently loosening one finger after another. Will watches this happening as if it’s happening to someone else, as if that’s not his hand Hannibal is lifting away to bring it to his face, tilting his head just enough to press his cheek fully into his palm. The coolness of his skin against Will’s own, warmer skin is very real, though, and it makes it easier to concentrate on the fact that it _is_ his hand, his fingers being pressed against Hannibal’s temple; some touching skin, some coming to rest in the graying hair.

“Look,” Hannibal is saying, his voice heavy and insistent around the single word. Will’s confusion doesn’t extend to this: he knows what Hannibal is asking him to do, _telling_ him to do.

_See for yourself._

Will shakes his head and sighs, but doesn’t move his hand away, instead letting his thumb drift along the sharp, alpine ridge of Hannibal’s cheekbone, where he’d very much like to experimentally brush his lips sometime. “It doesn’t work that way,” Will answers, voice shaky, even though he’s not entirely sure that’s true.

“Doesn’t it?” Hannibal asks, as if he’s reading his mind again. The thought makes Will tardily remember that through the bond his blood has created within Will, he very well may be doing something of the sort—in much the same way as Will has always seen too much, in body language and facial expressions, except now Hannibal has the key to a door Will has always kept firmly locked. It should make Will feel ill at ease, to be seen so thoroughly in such a way, but in truth all he feels is a surprising sense of comfort in the ease of a lifetime’s worth of loneliness at long last.

But Hannibal asked a question, and he’s still clearly waiting on an answer, if his open expression and slightly raised brow is anything to go by. All Will can summon is a short shake of his head and a dip of his eyes, down to stare at the jut of Hannibal’s chin when he sees comprehension begin to dawn in his eyes.

“Ah,” Hannibal says, succinctly.

“Ah, what?” Will replies, slightly irritated that he is now so apparently easy to read.

“Just that, for once, you are not being difficult for the sake of being difficult,” Hannibal answers, and Will watches the slight curl of his mouth as Will huffs. “You truly do not know how it works, do you?” Hannibal asks, and when Will doesn’t reply, he unnecessarily specifies, “These ventures into the minds of those that are not finally dead.” The hand that Hannibal isn’t using to press Will’s own against his cheek rises, touching Will’s own face in a mirroring way, his fingers brushing through the curls at his temple, soothing Will’s hackles until they’re laying flat again. “When did you realize you had this ability?” he asks softly.

Will sighs, drops his eyes further to the divot in the center of Hannibal’s throat, to the scar there he now knows the origin of. He remembers the way Hannibal looked at him when he stumbled upon Will so deep in Matthew’s mind that he had inadvertently gained control over him. He had looked at Will, despite being in an enclosed space with two powerful vampires of differing varieties, like  _he_ was the creature that should be feared. It had been an accident, the way Will had exerted control over Matthew, but it had happened as easily as if he were a marionette and Will, the puppeteer, picked him up to make him dance.

Will wants desperately to unburden himself on this matter. Having been trained since his abilities were first discovered that something was wrong with him—that he was something _other,_ something strange that needed to be hidden away—makes him fearful of discovering the true depths of his powers. He knows that, since that night, he hasn’t had even a second of downtime to consider what happened, what it means for him. But he knows he must; knows what his mind will unerringly tell him, most likely in his own father’s voice, slurred from whatever he could afford to get drunk on and angry, always _so_ angry at the hand life had dealt them both.

 _It’s unnatural_ , his father would say when he was still alive, and often, _Life is hard enough without making it worse on yourself, son. If you can’t stop it, you’ve got to_ hide _it._

He doesn’t have to hide it anymore. And even though some small part of him reminds him that maybe he _should_ keep it to himself, to keep hidden and safe the one thing that could be his only secret weapon, one wary glance up to meet Hannibal’s eyes is all it takes to convince him that part of him that he won’t _need_ that weapon against Hannibal. One look in Hannibal’s eyes is all it takes to remind him of the difference between those two forceful charges into Matthew’s mind, ripping and tearing his way in, compared to Hannibal, who—without truly knowing what he was asking for, because he couldn’t have known the extent of it— _invited_ Will in.

“Last night in the stairwell,” he admits finally, and the words leave him on a relieved, trembling breath, desperate to be free of them, “That was the first time. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I was so...”

“Desperate,” Hannibal finishes for him when Will himself proves unable. Will nods, his cheek brushing against Hannibal’s palm where he still touches him gently, still touches his temple as if he’s the one that can force their way through the brittle armor of someone’s skull and take a look inside, like Will can. “How did it feel?” Hannibal asks after a moment, his voice low enough that it’s barely audible over the crackling of the fire and the continued snoring of Winston before it, “When you were in control?”

“I felt powerful,” Will answers, voice just as soft. His brow furrows ever so slightly in thought, conjuring up the way he felt in that moment and trying to put it into words he can share, just because he _can_ share them, “Usually, when my power leaves me to occupy someone else, I feel weak without it. Like a vital part of me is missing, some load-bearing beam is gone and without it I could crumble at any second. But he wasn’t dead, not really. He didn’t need my power to be alive.” He bites his lip against the torrent of words, and swallows hard before admitting in a whisper, “When I went into Matthew’s mind, he wasn’t borrowing my power...I was _taking_ his, forcefully, bending it to my will, adding it to my own. I _wanted_ to stop him, to control him in that way, I guess, and so I...I just did.”

Hannibal considers this, his sharp eyes flickering over Will’s face, as if everything he needs to know is written there on his skin for him to effortlessly read and lift away. “And what did you want when you looked within me?” he asks, in that same quiet voice, but his attention is rapt, eyes unblinking and gaze ravenous for Will’s answer, “When you wandered around the halls of my mind as if you belonged there, trailing your fingertips along their walls?”

Will doesn’t have to think about his answer this time; instead, it waits ready, perched just behind his teeth. All he has to do is let it escape, to let it free to run to the only person he’s ever been able to be honest with in this way. He knows, without needing to ask, that whatever his answer, Hannibal will receive it and keep it safe, accept it fully, without judgment.

And so, after a lifetime spent keeping his own secrets, of hiding behind a veil of carefully constructed lies and sins of omission, it’s surprisingly easy to simply tell the truth. “I just wanted to _know_ you,” he whispers, brow furrowing as he struggles to put his thoughts into words fit for the world outside of where they normally are kept, rattling about in the screaming silence of his mind. The aggravation he feels at his inability to do so must show on his face, because Hannibal runs his fingers through Will’s hair and waits, the picture of patience.

Will opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again a few times. “I’ve spent my whole life alone,” he blurts out suddenly, and it’s not exactly where he was planning to start, but the words are spilling out all the same, “My father was afraid of me. I was too weird to make friends in school, too standoffish to date or even just hang out with. Anyone that’s seen what I can do, either back when I was on the force or taking odd jobs in graveyards or now, working for Jack, they were only interested in what I could do and how it could benefit them.” His fingers splay out against Hannibal’s face, thumb tracing along the unreal slope of his cheekbone again, his eyes dropping to the curve of his lips as he whispers, “And then...then I met you.”

Hannibal wets his lips, and Will forces himself to look away, back up to meet his gaze as he murmurs honestly, “I am not immune to being interested in your gift, or how I can use it to my advantage.”

Will nods, solemn. “No, you aren’t,” he agrees, because he knows Hannibal well enough now to know this to be true— _understands_ now, with what he’s learned that night, why Hannibal would have looked upon what he could do with an appraising eye, to perhaps find a way to use it in his thousand-year-long quest for revenge. “But you’re the only person who has ever thought of what I can do as a _gift_ ,” he whispers, “A _person_ who has a gift. You’re the only one I’ve ever known who has ever seemed to see me, the _real_ me, around it.”

“I do,” Hannibal assures him softly, taking and gripping Will’s hands in is own, and it sounds like a vow, especially when he adds, “I will.”

Will nods, and takes in a shuddering breath, and lets it out slow. “I thought I knew you, too,” he goes on. “As well as I could, anyway. But I only knew what you showed me, didn’t I? When I realized what you are,” he quietly intones, aware that he’s speaking as if it’s far in the past and not close enough that it could still be counted in hours instead of days, but it _seems_ so long ago now, “It felt like none of it was real. I came here looking for answers—about the vampires, about the deaths—and I still trusted you to tell me the truth about that. But what I really needed to know was if I was wrong about you, about _us,_ but I knew whatever you told me wouldn’t satisfy me. Wouldn’t take the doubt away.”

Hannibal’s eyes are like dark pools, unblinking as he holds Will’s gaze, absorbs his words. “I felt you, when you awoke,” he murmurs, “After I stitched you up and forced myself to leave your side. I stood there, in my kitchen, and experienced my bond to you opening up for the first time when you opened your eyes. I thought my heart was breaking.” Will can see Hannibal there in his imagination, standing alone in his kitchen with his hand pressed tentatively against his heart, reeling at the discovery of the depths in which Will feels things, in a way that he later described as _captivating_. “I will admit,” he continues, “I had not planned to reveal myself fully to you so soon. I had thought to wait, until I could determine what your reaction would be.” He smiles then, just barely, and whispers almost to himself, “What a fool I was to think I ever could.”

_I tried to plan. But with all my knowledge and intuition regarding the human condition, Will, I could never begin to predict you._

“I did not anticipate how deeply you would be hurt by my betrayal,” Hannibal admits lowly, his brow furrowing finely, but not because it pains him to admit he was wrong, Will realizes—no, he’s pained by the thought of hurting Will, in such an intentionally unintentional way. “I knew, the moment I felt you, what I had to do to prove myself to you.”

Will remembers the apprehension in Hannibal’s eyes when he took his hand and pressed his face into it, inviting him for the first time to look, to _see_. To give Will what he needed, when Will himself didn’t even know yet that he needed it. “You were afraid,” Will whispers, watching Hannibal’s face closely, knowing that it goes against his grain to admit to feeling such a way.

“Terribly,” Hannibal admits, without any hesitation, “I had my suspicions, but I did not truly know what you were capable of until that night in the stairwell. You are, by far, the most powerful creature I have ever known, Will.”

Will doesn’t entirely want to hear that, but can’t find it within himself to argue the point. “And you still let me look,” he says, his soft voice trembling. He already knew this, of course, but to hear Hannibal say it shakes him to his core.

Hannibal smiles then, small, and holds his eyes as he whispers back, “Fear is a powerful motivator.”

“So is love,” Will murmurs. He’s not entirely sure if he’s speaking of Hannibal’s love, or his own, but he supposes it’s all wound so tightly together, now, that there’s no hope of separating the two. Hannibal nods his head, just once, staring at Will with that softness in his eyes that makes it so hard for Will to keep looking at him, unsure if he’s strong enough to bear the weight of it. But he _does_ look, and finds the strength to say after a shuddering breath, “That’s what I was looking for...your motivations.”

Will knows he doesn’t need to elaborate, to specify that he is finally answering Hannibal’s question, about what he was searching for in his mind. “And what did you find there, darling boy?” Hannibal asks anyway, fingers trailing along Will’s cheek into his hair as he whispers in his dark, velveteen voice, “Fear? Or love?”

Will knows the answer. He remembers seeing himself in Hannibal’s mind, cutting through a thousand years of bleak, infinite darkness like a falling star against the backdrop of a boundless night sky; remembers seeing himself the way Hannibal sees him—the way no one has _ever_ seen him, even himself, _especially_ himself. He knows that if Hannibal could look inside of his own mind the way he can do to others he would see that his love and fear are so closely twined together that there’s no hope of seeing them separated, and realizes in contrast that the same cannot be said for Hannibal—he loves fearlessly, no matter how dangerous that love could be to him and to his very existence.

He doesn’t know how to express any of this, to express the jealousy he feels over this fact since he can’t say the same for himself—the love he feels for Hannibal is staggering and terrifying to him, and leaves him feeling as though the earth itself is shifting under his feet. And so, he gives him the only answer he’s capable of: leaning closer as his fingers tighten in Hannibal’s short hair to bring their lips together in a kiss, rough and soft all at once, to pour his answer into his mouth in that way.

The bond, Will supposes, answers just as readily, and Hannibal makes a soft sound as his tongue slips between Will’s lips to taste the words Will leaves unspoken. Hannibal tastes like expensive whiskey, and beneath that, Will tastes the faint traces of his own blood on his tongue, and he groans and laps at Hannibal’s mouth like a man starved, his fingers clutching first at his hair, at then at his sweater that dares to add a layer between them, anything to pull him closer.

At some point they break away, but not forcefully. Instead, they rest their foreheads together, and Will’s eyes stay closed against the flickering light from the hearth. He doesn’t open them, even when Hannibal says softly, “As with any newly acquired skill, practice makes perfect. I would have you practice on me, Will, in a controlled environment.”

Will does open his eyes then to look at him over the bare inch of space that spans between them. Hannibal’s eyes are still flickering with warmth from the fire, and they are so beautiful Will’s breath catches. “You’re offering to be my guinea pig?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light and failing miserably, “My newly acquired ‘skills’ are more than just taking a casual stroll through your memories, Hannibal.”

“I am aware,” he answers immediately, fingers combing soothingly through Will’s hair while Will all but gapes at him, unable to process that he is offering himself up in such a way. The thought of controlling Hannibal’s beautiful, strange mind makes him blanch, though, and Hannibal takes note of it and sighs quietly through his nose. “It is for your own safety,” he says, “You— _we—_ need to know exactly what it is you are capable of, and what you are not. It can wait for now, of course, but Matthew was newly made...”

“...And Mason and Cordell aren’t,” Will finishes, when Hannibal doesn’t seem ready or willing to. Hannibal nods, once, and Will does too, their foreheads brushing together with the shared movement. He sees the logic there: facing either one of them or both of them together is not the time to be discovering the depths—and more importantly, the shortfalls—of these new found abilities. But still, the thought of testing them out on Hannibal, bending him to his will in such a way, makes him feel more than a little ill.

Hannibal senses this, of course, and smiles that barely-there smile of his as a result. “I must confess,” he whispers, trailing the backs of his fingers down Will’s cheek to settle underneath his jaw to pull him closer again, gently kissing away Will’s frown, “My motivations are not altogether altruistic.”

Will huffs a quiet laugh against Hannibal’s lips. “No?” he says sarcastically, “I am surprised and shocked.”

Hannibal’s arms tighten around him, and while he graces Will with one of his rare true smiles, his eyes have gone dark like bottomless pits. “No,” he agrees, his nose brushing alongside Will’s, “I should like to know how it feels, to have you inside me.”

Will feels a thrill run from the base of his skull down his spine at the many implications of his words. “That can certainly be arranged,” he hears himself saying, as if his mind has been forcefully separated from his body.

“Oh, can it?” Hannibal asks airily. Will pulls back then to look at him sharply, unsure which of those implications he’s currently agreeing to, but it hardly matters, does it? In what way hasn’t he given himself to his monster already, and isn’t it only fair that he takes something for himself?

In yet another out-of-body experience, he feels himself nodding his head; signing along the proverbial dotted line without reading the contract. Hannibal’s fangs are peeking out below his bottom lip when he smiles again in response, pearly-white gleaming in the firelight, and he is radiant.

Hannibal is abruptly on his feet with Will in his arms, his movements so fast that Will makes a sound that’s disturbingly close to a shriek as his head swims, trying to keep up with the motion. Winston lifts his head and utters a soft woof of concern at the commotion, but settles back down again and closes his eyes with an annoyed huff when Will makes a soothing noise and gesture over Hannibal’s shoulder as he’s hefted towards the bed.

Hannibal sets him on his own two feet at the bedside, and Will’s hands are already reaching for him before he has a chance to pull away. He twists his fingers in the soft material of Hannibal’s sweater, tugging it up and murmuring simply, “Off.” Hannibal obliges him, his hands joining Will’s to push it up and over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. Will’s hands have already moved on to his pants, pushing them down over Hannibal’s slim hips, but his eyes are up, roaming over the slight softness to Hannibal’s underbelly, to the pale skin of his chest and shoulders, to the disheveled state of his hair from both the sweater being tugged over it and from Will’s clutching fingers.

All of it combined fills Will with a sharp ache of _want_ , and he whispers without really meaning to voice his thoughts aloud, “You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

Hannibal doesn’t demure away from the praise as Will would, were their situations reversed. Instead, he steps neatly out of his pants as Will manages to push them down enough for them to slide off the rest of the way, pooling around his feet, and then prowls closer, his gaze even more sharp and predatory than usual. In fact, Will realizes as he tilts his chin up to look at him, he looks more otherworldly than usual—there’s a healthy glow to his skin, a splash of pink like a brush of watercolors high on his cheekbones, a distinct air similar to that of a fat cat basking happily in a warm shaft of sunlight after a particularly robust meal.

Will knows that _he_ was the robust meal, and although he knows on some level this should horrify him, the sight makes him feel as though _he_ is the one on the receiving end of high praise. The effect is the same, and he can feel his own cheeks coloring with a flush that reaches the tips of his ears, which of course doesn’t escape Hannibal’s sharp eyes.

“Sweet boy,” he purrs, running his fingers over Will’s blush-warm skin, his eyes hungrily watching the path of his fingers as they drop and trace the bow of his upper lip, “I both sympathize and relate. It doesn’t make it any easier to look away, does it?”

“No,” Will answers in a rush of breath that acts like it may be his last. He wonders at the fact that close proximity to Hannibal makes him feel like he’s dying so often, while the opposite seems to be true for Hannibal—clearly, his proximity to Will makes him at least _look_ more alive. Hannibal feeding off Will’s life force, while Will dips his fingers into the long-dead depths of Hannibal’s mind.

He wonders, with great anticipation, what it will feel like when they meet in the middle.

“I can hear you thinking again,” Hannibal says. His hands begin pressing until Will obediently sits on the edge and lays back, huffing out a short laugh as Hannibal shucks him of his own pajama pants, leaving Will as bare as he is. Will says nothing, watching him as he moves himself further up the bed, over the covers that remain rumpled from their earlier activities before they were called away to the crime scene. “I can feel it, as well,” he adds, touching the center of his chest absently as if their bond is stored away there, next to his unbeating heart. He’s still holding Will’s eyes steadily even as he lowers himself to dig something out of the pocket of his discarded pants. Will doesn’t look away from him, so he doesn’t see whatever it is Hannibal has procured, merely watches him as he joins him on the bed, none-to-gently poking and prodding Will to the side to make room for himself as he adds in a hushed whisper, “I cannot imagine that I will ever get enough of it.”

Will opens his mouth to answer, even though he doesn’t quite know what to say to that. But then he finds himself distracted as Hannibal presses something into his hands, before reclining back against the pillows in an artful drape. Will stares dumbly at him for a moment, caught up in the sight of him, before lowering his eyes to the object in his hand.

It turns out to be none other than lubricant in a matte black packet. “Where the hell did this come from?” he asks, turning it over in his hand, hoping that Hannibal can’t pick up on the thin thread of jealousy he feels at the thought of him using this with someone else.

He does anyway, of course; this is obvious enough in Hannibal’s answering smirk. “Out of my pants pocket,” he says innocently, blatantly ignoring the real reason behind Will’s question.

Will wants to scowl at his obvious transparency, but instead does his best to continue hiding it—outwardly, at least. Then it occurs to him that the package had clearly been in his pocket all evening, stuffed in there at some point after they arrived back to the house, and he finds himself fighting back a smile. “Presumptuous,” he says before holding the packet between his teeth to turn and crawl across the bed to where Hannibal is lounging, trying for a reproachful tone, but instead it only comes out hopelessly teasing.

Hannibal, for his part, looks completely unrepentant as usual. “Merely hopeful,” he corrects, as he reaches out to draw Will close to him, who lets the packet drop from between his teeth to instead press his lips to Hannibal’s as he settles against his chest. “I already told you that our rendezvous in my car, delightful and thoroughly gratifying as it was, was not what I had imagined for us,” he whispers softly between brushes of their lips.

Will means to snort in amusement, but all that comes out is a quiet moan, both at the way Hannibal tastes and the reminder of what transpired between them earlier in the evening. Even now when he turns certain ways he feels a twinge of pain, and almost resents that Hannibal’s healing blood is quickly taking that reminder away from him. Still, a smile comes easy to his lips as he kisses his way along Hannibal’s jaw, letting his teeth scrape against the lightly stubbled skin there as he murmurs, “You’ve got your silk sheets and perfect lighting. What else do you want?”

Hannibal sighs out a sound that rumbles through his chest, and his accent seems thicker than usual when he answers, “I should think I’ve made that quite obvious, Will.”

 _I should like to know how it feels, to have you inside me_.

Will pulls away to look at him then, pupils widening to overtake the blue in his irises, heart tripping over itself momentarily with the stab of _need_ that rockets through him. Hannibal, at first glance, looks as unaffected as he always does with his hooded eyes and his face with all its sharp angles. But Will can see right through it now. He can see the yearning in his eyes and the softening around his mouth, the way his whole body reacts the same to Will’s as Will’s does to his—both of them drawn to each other the way a flower turns its face to the sun.

Will kisses him again, hand rising to cup his cheek, tongue parting his lips to lick his way into that mouth, dangerous in too many ways to count. He’s getting better already at maneuvering around his fangs, learning where to drag his tongue against them to draw a shudder from Hannibal without slicing himself on them. A large part of him still wants to, if only to encourage Hannibal to make the sounds that spill out of him at the taste of Will’s blood.

Their kiss goes on and on, not feeling like a means to an end but instead something to enjoy, to savor. Will has never known anything like it in his life, and he makes up for it now, going easily when Hannibal’s broad palm spreads out over his hip to pull him closer until their bodies are fused together, legs tangling against the cool slip of the sheets. The sounds that are spilling out of them both are becoming more urgent the more their hands wander, Hannibal’s hands tracing over the contours of Will’s back, while Will’s move from the dip of Hannibal’s collarbones to walk his fingers over the graying hair on his chest, following the trail of it downwards over his stomach.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers against his lips then, breaking away enough to look at him with blown-out pupils and fangs bared.

“Yes,” Will answers simply, kissing him one last time before hauling himself up on all fours over him. His mouth drags away from Hannibal’s, but not before pausing to run his tongue down the length of one fang. Hannibal shudders and clutches at him with fingers that squeeze at his shoulders just shy of painfully, and Will presses his smile against Hannibal’s jaw, at the impossibly soft skin behind his ear that just begs for a bite.

He allows himself that, nipping with blunt teeth into the flesh there and feeling a dark thrill at the rough sound it pulls from deep within Hannibal in response. His nails are digging into Will’s flesh now, and he shivers as they scrape hard like claws across his skin as he moves downward, dragging his teeth over a collarbone, closing his lips around a nipple before using his teeth there, too, to feel Hannibal arch helplessly up into his mouth.

Or, at least, it _seems_ helpless, but Will knows better, knows _him_ better than that. Will drags his tongue over his nipple again and raises his eyes, finds Hannibal looking down at him, gaze starving but still as calculating as ever.

Will wants it gone, wants to see him look as he did in the car, in the bed earlier that night after drinking Will’s blood, when he looked at Will like he was lost. He smiles mischievously, bites down hard enough to coax a gasp from Hannibal’s lips, and then pushes himself further down the bed, following the line of Hannibal’s hip with his tongue until he reaches Hannibal’s cock, lying heavy and leaking there, twitching at the close proximity of Will’s mouth.

He licks first at the shining trail of precome wetting the dark hair on his belly, closing his eyes briefly at the taste of Hannibal there—salty but also sweet, holding some of the same notes of flavor that Will has come to associate with his blood. It’s not fair, Will laments, how delicious he tastes, and how even though Will wants to draw this out for as long as possible it makes him want to devour Hannibal whole before he can get the chance. His hand wraps around him, eyes flickering up to meet Hannibal’s at the soft sound he makes when Will gently eases back his foreskin to reveal the shining head, and then holds his eyes still as he lowers his chin and drags his tongue over the tip.

Hannibal’s moan sounds punched out of him, and is enough to sustain Will for a lifetime, he thinks. Even more so is the look on his face, stricken and awestruck, his mouth hanging open to reveal his lethal fangs, his eyes blacker than pitch and so full of lust, of _love_ , that Will’s chest clenches with it. For once, it’s Hannibal that breaks eye contact first, and only then to close his eyes when he can’t seem to help it as Will, desperate for more of him, for more of those sounds, for more of those looks, slides his lips down the length of him and back up again, and then swallows him whole.

Will immediately goes for broke, choking himself on Hannibal’s cock, pulling off long enough to let a desperate, ravenous sound escape him before going back for more. Hannibal’s hand finds its way into Will’s hair, painfully tight as he guides him for a moment, pushing his head down while arching his hips up and breathing out a shaky, wounded sound every time his head hits the back of Will’s throat, causing it to clench down around him. Will keeps going, sucking loud and sloppy even when Hannibal’s hand loosens and instead falls to his jaw, feeling the way it moves, tracing his thumb over the stretch of Will’s lips wrapped around him. “Will,” he whispers, forming the single word into a rejoicing, sacred chant over and over with each swipe of a tongue, “Will, _Will,_ ” until his name morphs on his tongue into a desperate whisper of, “ _More_.”

Will finds himself helpless but to obey. Without taking his mouth off of Hannibal, for he’s not sure he would be able to even if he tried, he flattens himself out on his stomach on the bed between Hannibal’s spread thighs and reaches up with one hand, searching through the jumbled sheets until his fingers close around what he’s looking for. He brings the packet back to him, pulling off of Hannibal’s cock long enough to rip it open with his teeth and squeeze it out onto his hand carelessly, spilling it onto the sheets as it drips through his fingers.

He sucks down Hannibal’s cock again as he smears the slick between Hannibal’s thighs, finding his opening through touch instead of sight and pushing in roughly with one finger, throat working around Hannibal as he pulls out and then immediately presses back in with two and crooks them up, stroking.

He grins wickedly around his mouthful when Hannibal’s eyes fly open to look down at him, mouth hanging slack, a desperate sound slipping past his lips as he bridges up, first pressing further into Will’s throat and then grinding himself down on Will’s seeking fingers. More of that salty sweetness floods Will’s mouth in reward, and he closes his eyes and moans hungrily around Hannibal’s cock and moves his fingers in a slow rhythm, feeling Hannibal soften and open up with each stroke. It’s maddening, the desperation he feels for this man, to the point that he feels close to coming himself just from this, to the point that he practically snarls possessively when he feels fingers knot tight in his hair and pull him off, until he opens his eyes and glances up at Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal is looking down at him, with much the same expression as he did when Will was riding him in his car, except now he looks impossibly more lost. There is chaos in his dark eyes, his chest rising and falling in an irregular pattern, like he’s struggling for breath even though he doesn’t need it. He looks undone, completely, and Will knows he did this to him, _does_ this to him.

He thinks of addiction again, of his power over this monster; realizes again he doesn’t care if it eats him alive.

He holds Hannibal’s eyes when, with a gentle tug at his hair, he lets his fingers slide out of his body so that he can crawl up it instead. He slides his slick hand instead over his own cock from tip to root and back again, then settles into the welcoming cradle of Hannibal’s body, rutting up through the slick mess he’s made between his thighs as he settles against Hannibal’s chest, elbows planting in the soft mattress just under his arms. He slides one hand beneath Hannibal’s shoulder, cradling the back of his head in his hand, while the other rises to brush a few strands of his ashen hair away from his face with aching tenderness and whispers roughly, “Tell me again.”

Hannibal makes a soft sound as Will flexes his hips, and the head of his cock drags over his hole. His hand, broad and strong and familiar now, runs down Will’s spine, his nails leaving goosebumps in their wake as they rake across his skin. “I want to feel you,” Hannibal whispers, his accent thicker than Will has ever heard it, blurring his words. But they’re clear enough to Will’s ears when he hitches in a breath and whispers with heartrending honesty, “I want you in my head, in my body, in my blood.”

“Yes,” Will whispers back in response, lowering his head to kiss him as he reaches down, lines himself up, and then begins to press inside. “ _Hannibal_ ,” he groans as he feels that impossible tightness opening up around him, just enough to let him in. His hands scrabble to draw Hannibal up against him, reaching back to draw one leg up higher and wider as he breaks away from his mouth to press his forehead instead against Hannibal’s neck, overwhelmed. He hears the sounds he’s making, wounded and aching, as he makes a place for himself inside the man he loves. He hears the sounds Hannibal makes in return, sweet utterances and sharp breaths, accompaniments to the way his body clutches up around Will, soothingly cool and tight and binding, and it feels like home, _home_.

Hannibal’s body welcomes him, pulling him in deeper, and Will is helpless but to obey. His mouth is open against Hannibal’s throat, too far gone to even cry out as he pushes in that final inch until his hips are flush against Hannibal’s ass. He stays there, frozen, mind short-circuited from feeling too much—mentally, emotionally, physically—until the moment he feels fingers tighten in his hair, forcing him to lift his head, and Hannibal licks into his mouth and whispers hoarsely against his lips, “ _Please_ _.”_

Will makes a terrible, guttural sound and does the only thing he can do: obeys. His arms under Hannibal’s shoulders tighten, fingers digging in harshly as he fucks into him hard, over and over, his hips moving relentlessly, spurred on by the noises that are pouring from Hannibal’s mouth now unchecked, knocked loose from deep within him with each heavy thrust. Their bodies’ movements are almost frantic, their grips on each other punishing. Will fucks into Hannibal like he wants to split him open and crawl inside of him, and each roll of Hannibal’s hips up to meet him, each score of his nails across Will’s back is testament that he wants to let him.

Will can feel Hannibal’s cock trapped between them, feel it rubbing slick against the scars on his belly, left behind when Hannibal saved him, fed him his blood and gave him his life. There’s a scrape of fangs against his throat, then, as if Hannibal is remembering the same thing, and Will shudders hard in the cage of Hannibal’s arms. “Oh fuck, _fuck_ ,” he moans, searching out Hannibal’s lips. He finds them, and the moment they touch, it’s as if a switch has flipped.

They kiss, tongues and lips and teeth dragging together, and Will’s movements slow into deep rolls of his hips, leaving them both gasping into each others mouths with each thrust as if their breaths are shared and ripped out of them by force, one by one. Will shifts, angles deeper and fucks into Hannibal harder without picking up speed, desperate little sounds escaping him with every thrust.

“Will,” Hannibal is saying, the first actual word he’s been able to form since they started fucking, and it’s a surprise enough that Will draws back to look at him, the rhythm of his hips stuttering at the look on his face. He looks _wrecked_ , torn asunder, and his voice matches as he raises his chin and whispers, “Look, now. _See_.”

Will sucks in a shocky breath at the demand, but finds himself obeying before he has a chance to think it through. It’s instinct alone that causes him to draw himself flush against Hannibal’s body, rubbing his face against the side of Hannibal’s in a moment of pure animal affection. He’s been too sidetracked until that very moment to realize just how close to the surface his powers have been burbling, joined as thoroughly as he and Hannibal are. He pulls out, forces himself back in deep, brushes his lips against the sharp jut of cheekbone with a gravelly groan and then presses his temple against Hannibal’s and lets himself slip _in_.

_He feels the frigid cold, bitter with blowing crystals of ice that prick painfully at his skin. He sees the light from a full moon, illuminating the forest around him as brightly as the sun._

_He feels his blood running freely, warm and sticky until it freezes in solid red rubies against his skin. He’s dying, and he knows it. He welcomes it with open arms, for soon, he will be with her again._

_He feels a maniacal grin stretching lips that haven’t smiled for decades._

_He hears the words leave his lips in a voice that’s painfully familiar, but rougher and rusted with disuse. (They’re spoken in a language he doesn’t speak, but he understands them all the same, hears the way they curve naturally around an accent that has become as familiar to him as the cadence of his own thoughts in his own mind.)_

_He feels how strange and misshapen words feel in his mouth, having not uttered a single word since she was ripped from his arms and brought back to him in a sweet-tasting broth. (He hears the echo of Hannibal’s words, spoken over dinner and candlelight: muteness in the face of horror; and knows he was speaking of himself.)_

“ _For Mischa.”_

 _He thinks of her, then, as she was before she was taken from him; a flash of blonde curls, of dark and intelligent eyes. Of the sound of her voice, of the way she sang his name. He tastes her own name on his tongue when he speaks it, for the first time since her death, and for the last time he will utter it for over a thousand years. (Until him. Until **him**_.)

_He sees the creature before him, a man half on his way to becoming wolf, wide-eyed and seething with outrage that the cannibal has been let off his leash, even as the moon continues to overtake him, breaking and rearranging his bones within the confines of his skin. Claws have already split the ends of his fingers, growing outwards, and they drip viscously with blood, having already landed what is sure to be his death-blows. But even as he falls to his knees and the world tilts on its axis, Cordell joins him, falling to his hands and knees, knuckles splitting upon impact with the earth and howling in pain as he begins to shed his human skin._

_It’s then, with the last of his strength, with his last breath, that he launches himself towards him, jaws wide and teeth bared and—_

He sinks his teeth in deep— _into shredding skin, through burgeoning fur to the meat beneath, rending, tearing—_ into the slim column of a throat that arches up into his mouth _—and his mouth fills with foul blood_ —and his mouth fills with blood that is sweet and so achingly familiar— _and there are claws tearing him apart—_ and there are fingers in his hair, pulling him closer— _and he hears the deafening roar of something not quite human, not quite animal, but whatever it is, it’s dying—_ and he hears Hannibal’s voice, rough and broken and begging, chanting, “Please, _please_ , don’t stop, Will, don’t stop,” before he loses his ability to speak English altogether and Will can’t understand him anymore.

It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, or rather or not Will can understand the language he’s speaking. Because Will doesn’t _want_ to stop. Because he knows exactly what Hannibal wants—in this moment, this far deep into Hannibal’s mind, he knows, he _understands—_ and what they want is utterly the same.

Will rears back, rocks into Hannibal in a slow, grueling grind of his hips, and swallows down the darkly sweet blood that’s in his mouth. Where before he was merely dragging his fingers across the surface in the well of Hannibal’s mind, he instead dives in as impossibly deep as he sinks into Hannibal’s body, and wraps his fingers around the core of him. He feels Hannibal stiffen beneath him, around him, as his power usurps Hannibal’s own, and without opening his mouth whispers his command deep into that beautiful mind.

 _Bite_.

A sub-human sound vibrates out of Hannibal’s chest when he helplessly obeys, fangs sinking into the supple flesh of Will’s throat. Will is so wrapped up in him that he feels it two-fold—it’s his throat being torn into, it’s his sharp teeth rending pale flesh, it’s his blood flowing freely and his belly that it warms. The roots of his teeth ache with the need to bite, even as he feels the sweet relief—foreign to him—that Hannibal feels as his fangs sink deep. A strangled sound spills from his lips as he buries his face in Hannibal’s neck and bites down again over the closing wound he left behind, helpless in the face of the instincts flooding through him, fingers digging into Hannibal’s flesh and fucking into him mindless and jagged as his blunt teeth break the skin and his mouth fills with blood.

He swallows just as Hannibal does, and he feels something shift; winding through him like spindly fingers that race in a whisper along the map of the veins beneath his skin, searching and wanting until they reach his heart and wrap around it in a vice-like grip. Will inhales, sharp and wet, and hears and feels an identical sound against his throat as they breathe in shocked breaths as one. His hips still, clutching Hannibal to him as desperately as Hannibal clings to him as the slight warmth in his chest grows rapidly until it feels like a miniature sun trapped in there. And then, something slams in place in Will’s mind that feels like it should have been there all along, it’s so right, _so_ right, leaving his head and his skull feeling full to bursting for a split second that is terrifying in its intensity, the feeling of _too much, too much_ , before it swells to a crescendo and then detonates.

The dam breaks, and Will is _inundated_.

With pleasure, with need, with the feeling of finding an essential part of himself that he needed to be made whole. With love, _love_ , love so immense and limitless and all-encompassing, and it’s Hannibal he’s feeling, in his head, in his body, in his _blood_ , and he’s his, _his._

The sound that spills from Will’s lips is so far from human, so far from his own voice, that he wonders if it’s even him making it. The stillness that had washed over them breaks suddenly, and they’re both abruptly moving together in a frenzy, Will fucking into Hannibal brutally as Hannibal’s entire body arches up to meet his every thrust. Will tears himself away from Hannibal’s throat, dislodging Hannibal from his own, his hands seizing Hannibal’s face as he presses his forehead against his. Hannibal’s dark eyes hold fire and pandemonium when their gazes meet, half-lidded like he’s drunk, like he’s drugged, like he’s lost and found all at once, the mouth smeared with Will’s blood changing shape as he murmurs something over and over again in that language that fits the sharp edges of his accent in ways that English cannot, hoarse voice repeating the words mindlessly.

Will still can’t understand him, not really, and yet he does; the sentiment is pounding through his veins, screaming in his head, and he knows, he _knows_.

“Me too,” he whispers despairingly through his own bloody lips, breath ragged and broken as Hannibal’s hands slip over his shoulders, nails scoring down his back, pulling Will into his body with every frantic push. Will makes a woeful sound, overcome, buries his face in Hannibal’s neck and moans, “ _Fuck_ , Hannibal, me too, I—”

“ _Will,_ ” Hannibal gasps out, and whatever declaration was about to leave Will’s lips dies as Hannibal looses a broken and wretched noise that sounds torn out of him, shaken loose from his chest. Will can feel how close he is through the tendrils of the bond forming between them even now, as close as he is himself, and he feels certain he’ll die if they don’t go over that edge together.

It’s so easy to dip back into Hannibal’s mind, now, his power galloping through his veins alongside Hannibal’s blood. He dives in deeper than he did before, drowning himself in him until their minds feel one in the same, until he can’t tell their bodies apart anymore—it’s him tearing into the body below him like he’s trying to climb inside him, it’s his body being split wide to let him in. His eyes prickle as they flash black and he bares his teeth in a snarl, rears back just enough to get a hand around Hannibal’s cock, fucking into him relentlessly, and lets his hold on his power _snap_ , grinding out in a voice that rumbles ominously with the same electric tension the air holds after lightening strikes, “ _Come_.”

Hannibal throws his head back, baring the long line of his neck and making a beautiful, wounded sound as his body obeys the command helplessly, cock pulsing as he comes over Will’s fingers, in stripes across his belly and up his chest; and then Will is coming too, sinking deep one last time with a savage cry as he spills himself deep within Hannibal’s body. His orgasm tears something vital out of him by force along with it, and he collapses against Hannibal, trembling and panting out little broken noises, boneless and helpless to do anything but bury his face in his neck and cling to him as his vision dims dangerously and then promptly cuts to black.

Consciousness returns to him in increments; only seconds later, if his continued inability to catch his breath is anything to go by. His heart is still hammering against the confines of his ribs, but his mind is blissfully clear in a way he’s never experienced before; the usual snarl of thoughts have quieted, and the well of his power within him is silent, the monster itself satiated and slumbering and content.

Also feeling satiated and content is Hannibal, whose presence he can feel now taking up space within him. He seems to fill a place within Will that was already open, waiting for him, without having to rearrange anything or overcrowd his mind to make room. He’s just there, now, something warm and comforting that has taken up residence within him, and Will doesn’t know how he’s lived without it until now, doesn’t know how he would ever live without it again.

But at the same time, a familiar shame is creeping in; felt heavily enough when his powers as they were before were exposed, and magnified now in the face of what he can do, what he’s _done_. He knows Hannibal asked for it, consented for his mind to be taken over so fully, but surely wanting it and experiencing it is two different things?

It takes him long enough to gather his courage to lift his head to meet Hannibal’s gaze that his breathing has calmed somewhat. Hannibal is looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, Will’s blood staining his teeth and his own drying on his throat where Will’s teeth tore into him so savagely. His hair is a mess, and he looks fucked out and blissful and _happy_ , happier than Will ever could have imagined him capable of.

Will’s worries die a quick and painless death when Hannibal’s fingers find Will’s cheek, his touch gentle as the beginnings of a lazy smile curve his lips, and he whispers hoarsely, “You are a wonder.”

“Yeah?” Will asks, his lips teasing a small, shy smile. He flexes his hips, just once, and even though his length is softening inside him, it’s still enough to draw a sound from Hannibal that, although barely audible, makes Will ache.

“Yeah,” Hannibal repeats breathlessly, and the sound of so casual a word coming from those lips in that accent makes Will huff a soft laugh. He leans down, petting through Hannibal’s messy hair as he kisses him, tongues moving together lazily, and then moves to slide off of him, even as Hannibal’s hands clutch at him and he commands weakly, “Stay.”

“Can’t,” Will replies, both of them sharing a groan as he slips from within Hannibal’s body and collapses beside him on the bed. The orgasms, each one more intense than the last, the multiple expulsions of his powers, the seemingly never-ending night all catch up on him at once, and even the infusion of Hannibal’s blood isn’t enough to save him this time. When Hannibal turns on his side, wrapping his arms around him, he goes boneless and pliant into the pull of his arms. “Tired,” he grumbles, turning his face into the graying hair on Hannibal’s chest.

“Then sleep, my love,” Hannibal replies, tucking his chin atop Will’s curly head. Will can feel the gentle rumble of his voice against his cheek.

Will yawns loudly, and wonders at pulse of warmth he feels in response to the sound from the part of his mind that Hannibal is still settling into. He’s finds he’s not ready to talk about it, and so he slips an arm under Hannibal’s to drape over his side, fingers idly brushing against the cool expanse of his back. “Do you ever sleep?” he mumbles.

“Only hanging from the rafters like a bat,” Hannibal replies lightly, his gravelly voice teasing, and earning himself a gentle bite from Will on the collarbone. He tightens his arms around Will and strokes his hair, then adds softly, “I do not sleep, as such. I rest, and at my age require very little of it.”

Will supposes that’s how he manages his impressively full schedule of being a doctor and an FBI consultant and all of his hobbies while killing and eating the fine people of Baltimore. But he is, for once in his life, too tired even to be snarky, and asks softly instead, “No dreams?”

“Not since I was human,” Hannibal offers quietly.

Will wonders if those dreams were of Mischa. He remembers the flash of her he saw in Hannibal’s mind, all blonde ringlets and chubby cheeks and the same dark fox-like eyes she shared with her brother. He didn’t just see her, he _experienced_ her: the sweet way she smelled, the warmth of her little palms clutching his face, the way her laughter sounded like spring birdsong even in the dead of winter. He wonders how it’s even remotely possible to love someone he’ll never meet, who died a thousand years before he was born, but he does, fiercely.

“What happened?” he asks quietly after a few moments during which the only sound that breaks the silence is the crackling fire and Winston woofing softly in his sleep in front of it. Hannibal hums in question, so Will specifies, “After you killed him.”

Hannibal presses a kiss against his hair, and then turns to rest his cheek against it. “I watched him bleed out onto the forest floor,” he whispers, “Although I was unable to enjoy my victory for long. I succumbed to my own injuries quickly after watching him take his last breaths, right there in the snow beside him.”

Will knew, of course, that Hannibal had to have died to become what he is, but hearing about it is another thing entirely. He closes his eyes against the rush of emotion he feels, mourning for Hannibal, for Mischa, for what was taken from them, for Mischa’s cruel end and what it did to Hannibal, for the boy who became a man who became a monster long before he was turned into what he eventually became. He must stiffen in Hannibal’s embrace, because he makes a soothing sound and holds him closer. “I embraced my death with open arms, Will,” he says softly into his hair, “My human life was nothing more than a circle of violence and degradation for longer than I could remember, even then. I was able to end it, on my own terms, not theirs.”

Will tries to let this soothe him, but it doesn’t, not really. “But it wasn’t the end,” he murmurs, “For either of you.”

“Indeed, it was not,” Hannibal agrees. His hand finds Will’s where it’s mashed between them, twines their fingers together and holds. “I woke up in a shallow grave, and tore my way to the surface,” he whispers, “There was an empty grave beside mine that stank of wolf. They were gone, and I began my search for them. I’ve come close once or twice, but they have always managed to stay two steps ahead of me, just out of my reach. Until now.”

“Until now,” Will repeats, voice hushed in the quiet of the room.

They fall into silence, Will lost in his own thoughts while Hannibal seems content to lie there and hold him, hands petting over him and soothing him towards a much-needed sleep. Behind his closed lids he can see the cruel face, those vicious blue eyes, belonging to the being savage and malevolent enough to torture a child from boyhood to adulthood and beyond, to turn him into a monster like himself only to abandon him without looking back, preserving him in stasis to no doubt call upon him with more torment at some point in the future.

That point in the future may very well be at one with their present. Mason may know who Will is, and what he can do, but there is one thing he couldn’t possibly count on: the lengths Will is willing to go to protect what he loves, what is _his._ Lying there in Hannibal’s arms, listening to his soft purr and Winston’s contented sounds in his sleep a few feet away, Will is only beginning to realize it for himself.

When he finally drifts off, there’s a small, dark smile on his lips at the thought of a vampire biting off more than he can chew.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I believe you are forgetting that, whatever power lies within that fascinating mind of yours, you are only human,” Hannibal says, voice soft and cutting at the same time like silk covering a steel blade, and reaches out to wrap his fingers around Will’s throat for the second time that night as he adds in a whisper, “Such a beautiful body. One that I crave beyond all reason. And yet, it is but a glass cage of brittle bone and blood. Easily broken. _Fragile._ ” 
> 
> -
> 
> In which Will and Hannibal's monsters clash as they struggle with what lies ahead.

Monsters have always haunted Will’s dreams.

When he was a child, he would dream of the things that went bump in the night; things that other kids’ parents would wake them up from and soothe the fear away, proving to them that there were no boogeymen hiding in their closets or under their beds. Will’s father was always either at work, or if he wasn’t, far too drunk to care if his only child was down the hall crying out in fear.

As a teenager, and later as an adult, his nightmares took the shape of the man who took his only parent, such as he was, away from him. He dreamed almost every night of his father’s last moments, of the gleeful hunger on the vampire’s face before he ended his life, of the chunks of meat that formerly made up his father’s throat wedged in the crevasses between the vampire’s sharp, jagged teeth. He would dream of what he could have done to save him, were he there at the time; he would dream of alternate realities where he died right along with him. The former often ended with the latter, and the latter was often times the most peaceful form his nighttime imaginings could take.

The dream he’s currently having isn’t bereft of monsters. Missing among the cast of characters is not the vampire he now knows to be named Cordell, his ever-present companion in his sleep. But there are others now along side him, now, playing lesser parts: Mason, in his fur-collared coat, sneering and baring two long, pointed fangs. Matthew, his youthful features slack on his face on the head that’s still separated from his shoulders and carried underneath his arm like a parcel.

But now, dominating his current dreams is a new headlining monster.

Hannibal looms even larger in his resting mind than he does in real life. He’s beautiful and savage in equal measure; and his dream shifts from Hannibal coming along to save both Will and his father in the nick of time, to a dream where it’s him that ends them both. Then it shifts yet again, and it’s Will desperately fighting to save Hannibal—first as he must have been as a boy, from the fate he’s due of a life of torment spent with the flesh of his sister sitting heavy in his belly, then again from Cordell’s gnashing teeth when he’s much older and hardened by events long since transpired.

It’s when his dreams turn from the past and towards the future, though, that Will awakens with a start.

He’s already half in a panic before he’s even opened his eyes, fighting fruitlessly against something heavy that is trapping him. But when _does_ open them, he finds himself staring across the pillows at Hannibal’s face, and his movements stutter to a stop, unable to do anything else but stare.

He is, Will registers, in almost the exact same position Will last saw him; on his side, sheets in an artful drape around his waist. One arm is shoved up underneath his pillow, and the other turns out to be the heavy, seemingly impossible to move thing that is slung across Will’s body. His skin, even where it’s pressed against Will’s, is cold as the room around them, and he’s even paler than he is usually and as still as the grave; there’s no stirring of breath or rise and fall of his chest, no fluttering of movement behind his closed eyelids.

It’s one thing to know intellectually that one has fallen in love with a dead man. It’s another altogether, Will learns, to see the undeniable proof of that first hand, to wake up with said dead man lying there, half sharing one’s pillow. The part of him that has always wanted to be more normal than he is wonders if it shouldn’t bother him more than it does.

But then, hasn’t Will _always_ been more comfortable in the company of the dead?

His chest feels too tight as he reaches out to brush back the hair that hangs haphazard over Hannibal’s brow, still a mess from the night before, both from Will’s clutching fingers and from letting Will fuck him into the mattress. There’s still blood at the corner of his mouth, and even more smeared on his throat, even if the marks from Will’s blunt teeth have long-since healed. It’s another reminder of what exactly he is, but Will only feels a smile tugging his lips in an unfamiliar way—unfamiliar because in that moment, he’s _happy_ , impossibly so. Hannibal’s face is half-pressed into the soft silk of his pillowcase, nose and slack lips pushed ever so slightly out of shape, and Will would never have imagined in a million years he would find a creature such as him so disarmingly adorable, but he does, and he loves him, _loves_ him so much it terrifies him to his core.

But he’s not the only adorable thing in the room. He hears the tick-tick of nails against the polished wooden floors and glances over Hannibal’s shoulder just seconds before a furry brown face peers over the edge of the bed, resting there among the rumpled sheets and fixating Will with the biggest, saddest puppy eyes he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing.

“Good morning, Winston,” Will whispers, as if he is in danger of disturbing his bedmate. Just beyond where Winston is peering at him, Will can see a feathery tail beginning to wag at the sound of his voice, just before the dog opens his mouth and whines long and loud for attention. “Alright, alright,” he answers, still smiling that foreign smile as he shifts and then works his way out of Hannibal’s iron grip before rolling over and placing his bare feet on the floor.

Winston comes to join him on his side of the bed to dance around happily at Will’s feet when he stands, and allows himself a moment to stretch indulgently. He does so without the creaks of his bones that he’s used to, and supposes he has Hannibal’s blood to thank for that, although he laments the loss of the aches he’d _like_ to be feeling at the moment—twinges from the exertion of their activities in the bed behind him the night before, or the lingering soreness that should be reminding him right now of how Hannibal had carved out a place for himself inside of him.

But when he finishes his stretch and scratches absently at his stomach and finds no trace of the scars from Matthew’s attack left at all, he decides that he really has no room to complain.

He leans down and roughs Winston’s jowls in greeting, finding himself unable to stop smiling in the face of the dog’s own happy grin, tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. It stays on his face even as he playfully shoves the dog away and heads towards the door to Hannibal’s closet in search of something to wear, purposefully bypassing the drawer Hannibal filled for him in favor of borrowing something that smells like him.

He stops short upon entering the closet, since the word _closet_ doesn’t do what he sees any justice whatsoever. Instead, he finds himself in a place that looks like a sprawling dressing room and a bespoke menswear shop had a lovechild. One whole wall is lined with suits, jackets paired with matching pants and neatly hung together, in a wide array of colors and patterns that make his head hurt just to look at all together. Another wall is nearly completely filled with shelves that hold countless pairs of shoes, even if they all look nearly the same to Will’s undiscerning eye.

With an exasperated but fond shake of his head, he turns away from all that and instead goes to another corner of the room where he finds a slate gray bathrobe that is made out of something that feels heavenly between his fingers, and even more heavenly against his skin when he pulls it off the hanger and wraps himself up in it. He ties the belt loosely around his waist and then turns his head, burying his nose in the collar and using every bit of the heightened senses Hannibal’s blood has given him when he takes a great sniff, closing his eyes and sighing happily despite himself at just how fucking _good_ it smells.

Winston, who has been sitting in the doorway patiently up until this moment, huffs loudly. “Shut up,” Will tells him when he looks around to catch the dog clearly judging him for his moment of indulgence, “Do you want to go out or not?”

Winston only tilts his head in reply at the sound of his master’s voice, giving him a purely innocent look that reminds Will strongly of the vampire a few feet away from him (too fucking many, if the tug he feels to return to him is to be believed) resting soundly. Will rolls his eyes and turns to leave, hesitates for a moment before pulling out the nearest drawer, and then the next, until he finds what he’s looking for.

By the time he and Winston have made their way down the stairs, Will has fashioned the two of Hannibal’s ties he has borrowed into a makeshift leash. The brightly colored paisley print looks nice against Winston’s brindle fur when he fastens it around his neck loosely. He finds his discarded boots by the door and shoves his bare feet into them, leaving the laces sloppily untied, and lets them both outside.

He realizes once he’s out in the backyard, politely averting his eyes while Winston does his business, that it’s a good bit later in the day than he had first imagined. The sun is still high in the wintry sky, but has obviously already begun its afternoon descent. He’s forced to shade his eyes with his hand and still has to squint in order to withstand the glare, even though it’s never really bothered him before. He supposes he’ll have to procure a pair of sunglasses from somewhere, until the effects of Hannibal’s blood wears off.

 _If I **allow** it to wear off_.

The thought comes out of nowhere, and seems somehow both obtrusive and completely organic at the same time, but shocks Will all the same. Enough that his flinch makes him give a tug on Winston’s ‘leash’, knocking the dog off balance where he had lifted a leg to pee on one of the backyard’s low, fancy bushes. The dog turns his head and glares at Will as he mutters an apology in his direction, as if he can understand him, and as a concession lets the dog off his lead, fairly sure now that he has no intentions of escape. As he putters around the yard giving everything an invasive sniff and subsequently marking his new territory, Will collapses into one of the chairs on the stone patio near the back door and puts his head in his hands, half to hide from the sun boring holes into his eyes and half to allow himself a quiet moment to think.

He hadn’t _planned_ to drink from Hannibal again as he had last night. It’s not as if he didn’t know what the result would be—Hannibal had told him, rather plainly for once, exactly how a bond is formed. He couldn’t even blame it on his dip into the vampire’s mind if he wanted to: feeling Hannibal attack Cordell may have been what spurred him to bite in the first place, but he was back in his— _own_ , if not exactly _right—_ mind when he chose to swallow the blood in his mouth. He could have spit it out, he supposes, and he _definitely_ could have not bitten him again, and drank from him with purpose.

No, and he figures its high time to admit to himself before things go any further what it is he wants. It’s the same thing he wanted before he knew what Hannibal was, to be closer, even if at the time he didn’t know how to achieve that. He had ached for it, though; some semblance of a normal life with the strange, enigmatic man who had slipped so effortlessly through his every line of defense and made a place for himself in Will’s closely guarded heart.

Everything has changed since then, and yet nothing has changed in the least.

Will huffs a helpless laugh into his hands and then sits back in his seat, bare legs poking out askew from beneath his borrowed and slightly too large bathrobe, watching Winston as he stretches his legs, galloping around the yard for a moment before dropping to the grass with an excited yip to roll around on his back, all four legs akimbo. His easy, doggy happiness at being rescued from the streets and brought into a warm home where he will be loved and fed well is infectious.

Maybe the reason for that, Will muses, is because it’s also quite relatable.

Things were never going to be simple, since even when Will thought Hannibal was just a man, Will himself wasn’t. And yet now, with so many other factors added into the mix to complicate things—what Hannibal is, what he does, Mason, Cordell, Will’s power seeming to grow exponentially under the silent tutelage of Hannibal’s blood—things have somehow become simple all over again.

Will loves him enough that everything else seems like background noise. The thought should scare him in that it _doesn’t_ scare him, to find himself so thoroughly entwined with another so quickly and easily. The way they have slotted together so seamlessly, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, feels so natural that it seems _unnatural,_ so much so that he would worry it’s all yet another side-effect of Hannibal’s blood if he didn’t know deep down that those puzzle pieces were interlocked well before he had his first drop.

He is shaken from his thoughts when a cold, wet nose presses against his knee, and his eyes focus themselves on Winston’s shaggy face as the dog looks up at him, panting still from his activities. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Will asks him, finding himself smiling as the dog pricks his ears and tilts his head curiously at the sound of his voice when he questions him in an excited, high-pitched voice he’s glad nobody but Winston is around hear, “Have you worked up an appetite, boy? You want your breakfast?” Winston only pants excitedly in response, and Will squints up at the sun and amends, “Or dinner, I guess. Hmm?”

Winston lets out a single shrill bark, not knowing what Will is talking about, but exuberant about it all the same. Will stands, adjusting his robe, and laughs as Winston dances in hopping circles around him before tearing off towards the back door to Hannibal’s house. He’s still smiling as he follows, stuffing the two ties halfway into one of the robe’s pockets as he goes. He opens the door, lets Winston inside, and then shuts the door behind them both.

The house is shrouded in shadow, late in the day as it is, but Will knows his way around well enough by now to find his way to the kitchen. By the time he does, his eyes have adjusted from the bright light of the sun, and even in the darkness of the windowless kitchen he finds his eyesight much sharper than usual, able to see clearly as he moves to the sink to fish out the plate Hannibal fed the dog off of the night before from the rack where his own dinner dishes from yesterday were placed to dry. He can’t quite imagine Hannibal ever serving anyone off a plate that a dog licked clean again—which is laughable, considering what he serves _on_ the dishes is much worse—and so he assumes the dish is Winston’s, now, fair and square.

It takes him a few moments to find the leftovers from Winston’s last meal in the extremely well-stocked, overcrowded refrigerator. He mumbles an apology to the dog for the food being cold when he serves him, since Will highly doubts Hannibal would own something as gauche as a microwave. But Winston doesn’t seem to care in the least, gobbling down the chicken and rice with gusto and happily chasing down a pea that his tongue flicks off the edge of the plate and across the floor.

Will is feeling that feeling in his chest again, like something inside it—his heart, he supposes—is growing too large to fit comfortably alongside his other organs. His cheeks are aching from his wide smile as he goes to rummage through the cabinets, finding first a deep metal bowl for Winston and then a glass for himself and filling them both with the filtered water from the tap on the refrigerator door. He sits Winston’s bowl down beside his half-filled plate of food, which he quickly abandons in lieu of lapping up nearly half the bowl, despite him drinking ravenously from the hose while Will bathed him the night before.

Will settles down on one of the stools at the kitchen island, and drinks deeply himself from his glass, not having realized just how thirsty he was until the blissfully cool water touched his lips. Even still, he holds a grudge against the liquid for washing away the lingering taste of Hannibal’s blood, both sweet and irony, in the back of his mouth.

Despite the noise Winston is making as the stray eats and drinks his heart’s content, Will finds the kitchen to be entirely too quiet and dull without Hannibal’s presence livening it up. Hannibal owns the room wherever he may be: no matter if it’s in a professional capacity in his consulting room, terrifying with murderous intent in his creepy basement, watching with temperate interest at a crime scene or looming large and radiating displeasure in Jack Crawford’s office. In his bedroom—and Will finds himself shivering at the mere thought—he is as confident and self-assured as anywhere else, but surprisingly lithe and unsurprisingly beautiful in a sprawl among artfully rumpled sheets.

But in the kitchen, Hannibal is something else entirely. The man has always seemed the most at home to Will, here, with his apron tied neatly around his trim waist and his hands moving, fingers curved around lethally sharp objects and forearms bared and tendons flexing, betraying untold sums of strength, if one knows what to look for. The way he operates there reminds Will aggressively of the sensuous way the man moves in bed beneath him, now that he’s experienced it: carnal and hedonistic and lush, like he was doing exactly what he was made for.

Maybe the reason for that is what he _does_ in the kitchen, something that predates even the many aspects that came along with his change into what he is, something that is even more a part of his whole than his sharp teeth and still heart. His monster is one that was born, not made, and it happened long before he took his last breath as a human being. Being turned only preserved it for all time.

He has seen, more than once now, the monster that normally lurks within the perfectly put-together person suit he wears in all its terrifying glory. It was once upon a time as perfectly hidden to him as it is to everyone else, a concept that Will now finds outrageous, now that he is able to so easily peek through the seams to see the creature gnashing its teeth just within. He’s seen it, now, when it tears its way through by force, saw it just last night in the car when Hannibal lost some of his iron-clad control at the mere thought of the true monsters that made him into what he is coming anywhere near Will. He thinks of a vehement promise to take Will away, to abandon everything he’s worked towards—what they’ve _both_ worked towards—to keep him safe.

Will thinks of allowing this to happen. It’s almost disturbingly easy, to imagine how they could spend however many years he has remaining on this earth together. Hannibal would show him the world, and in return could see it anew through Will’s eyes as he experienced it. He could show him the finer things the globe has to offer, while also giving him the little things Will has never allowed himself to consider having: a home, a bed to share, love that would run deeper than anyone besides them would be able to fathom. Perhaps he would eventually let Hannibal convince him to be turned, so that they could be together forever. Perhaps he would simply choose to die of old age, and Hannibal could pick up where he left off before Will came along and derailed a thousand years’ worth of plans.

Either way, they could be _happy_.

Or could they?

Will examines what he learned the night before; from what Hannibal had told him, yes, but more from the things he couldn’t have possibly put into words and had instead let the last of his guard down and allowed Will to _see_. He thinks of Mischa, tucked now in the place inside of him where Will has long kept the few good memories of his father. She, too, is preserved forever, but innocent in a way Will’s father cannot be.

They are catalysts for change, the both of them; born and died a thousand years apart and yet managing to send those that loved them down a long, gnarled path that would one day merge and combine in an irreversible way. Their love, their loss—it is entirely the reason Will and Hannibal managed to find each other. Will could have spent the last decade watching his father slowly drink himself to a much more natural kind of death, caring for him, fixing boat motors just like his father taught him to pay for medical expenses, a roof over their heads, benign and normal things. Hannibal could have lived and died as a human, and his bones, everything that made him what he is, could be ground down by time into thousand year old dust.

But that’s not what happened, for either of them. Mason came along, dug gnarled claws deep into both of their lives and uprooted them and planted them forcefully down into another path that they weren’t meant for. Or perhaps it _is_ what they were meant for, all along—fated to find each other, to intertwine in this unimaginable way.

To scour from the earth these monsters _together_ , because neither of them could do it alone.

Will finds himself following an offshoot of that path they’re on now, drawn towards that inevitable juncture, without having truly realized he’s climbed to his feet. Winston, having abandoned licking his plate clean to instead follow his newfound master, trots along behind him as Will climbs the stairs, fingers trailing lightly against the wooden banister along his way.

All the while Will lets the realization that had slipped effortlessly into place for him, as so many others had while sitting in Hannibal’s kitchen, settle like a thick, heavy cloak upon his shoulders: that he can’t give up his quest for revenge any more than he can allow Hannibal to do so. For them, and for his father, and for Mischa. And he can’t, _won’t_ , let Hannibal do it alone, either now or long after Will is dead.

They will do this together, for each other. There’s no other way.

On the landing, he stops for a moment to allow himself to experience the effects of their newly bonded blood for the first time. In Hannibal’s rest the bond is quiet, a low and comfortable rush of white noise reminding him that it exists, that they have forged this connection together. There is no whisper of another’s emotions in the back of his mind as there was last night: running along the same lines as Will’s own but different and pronounced in a way he’s not sure he could describe if he had to. But even if Hannibal is dead to the world, Will still feels a pull to return to him like a hook in the center of his chest, not so much reeling him in as much as it feels like following the inevitable direction of the current.

He goes. His feet pad just past silently as he makes his way down the hall and into Hannibal’s room, through the doorway where he lingers, feeling a creeping sense of warmth coming up from some deep well inside of him at the sight of Hannibal’s broad back, of the soft hair feathered against his pale nape, and even after only a few minutes apart he aches, _oh_ how he aches for him. He spares a moment’s thought, again, for how this should bother him, for how this shouldn’t be organically possible for someone as prickly and habitually lonely as he is, to simply _want_ another person this badly.

He considers it, and then tosses it aside, and makes his way through the room, fully intending to worm his way back into Hannibal’s arms and wait, wait until those blood-drenched eyes open with all their intelligence and amusement flickering in their depths and he can hear Hannibal’s voice again, until they can have a conversation about whatever they need to do next.

He rounds the end of the bed, and stops.

He’s not sure why it hits him then, and not earlier when he was examining Hannibal so closely when he woke. Maybe it’s just that now he sees the whole picture, as it were; Hannibal lying there, arm flung out across the covers from where Will had crawled out beneath it, face slack and looking placid and peaceful and unassuming as anything.

It should comfort him, he supposes, to see someone he loves resting peacefully. Maybe especially now that he knows more specifics of the horrors that Hannibal managed to live through as a human, horrors so similar to his own, that still keep him up at night and when they don’t, keep him embroiled in reliving them over and over again in his dreams. He should, perhaps, take comfort in knowing that Hannibal has an escape Will himself has never had, a place where he can go and not be haunted by the ghosts of an unfathomably distant past, carried with him through time to once again drop like an atomic bomb on his present.

But Will finds himself instead irrationally...bothered by it.

It’s not that he hasn’t seen Hannibal’s stoic and stern features soften before. They often do, often _have_ since the moment they met, moments in time that have become more and more frequent in the relatively short time their lives have been so conjoined. Hannibal looks at Will like no one has ever looked upon him, like his whole unfathomably vast world has narrowed down to a knife’s edge for reasons Will can’t begin to understand when he smiles, or says something rude, or very rarely—although more often now than ever before—laughs.

But those moments are all just for Will; moments in time where a willing, conscious exchange is made—except those exceedingly rare moments where Will has managed to catch Hannibal completely off guard. They are gifts, glimpses into a side of himself that Hannibal shows no one else but Will, moments that unbeknownst to him he’s been filing away to keep safe, to treasure. Now, Hannibal is lying there looking human and soft and sweet and so achingly _vulnerable_ and any-fucking-body could wander in off the streets and see Hannibal exposed and unprotected and the thought makes Will feel off-kilter, vicious enough that he wants to bare his teeth and snarl at some unseen threat, scared to his very core at the thought that this powerful creature that he loves so fiercely could ever be as defenseless as he is in that moment.

He knows it’s irrational, to feel afraid for him; to curse himself for leaving him alone, for not being there to protect him every other time he’s rested in the short time they’ve known each other, or in each and every one of the endless stretch of days that have long since passed, long before Will was even born. But he feels it all the same, the desperate need to keep him safe, and so he strips off his robe and climbs onto the bed with purpose, throat clogged with fear and an overprotective urge he’s never felt before in his life.

No sooner do his knees hit the bed, though, do Hannibal’s eyes fly open, dark and glassy, and a primordial noise tears out of his chest that makes all the fine hairs on Will’s body stand abruptly on end as whatever prey instinct he has left in him goes on high alert. In a blistering-quick blur of movement a hand wraps around his throat and slams him onto his back on the mattress, and in the blink of an eye Hannibal is hovering over him, fangs inches from his face as he snarls, low and reverberating and deafening. Their blood—previously quiet and deadened during Hannibal’s rest—opens up like a mighty river that was dammed up with concrete, and then that dam detonated, and he’s flooded with _fear-rage-mine-rendtearkill_ until there’s no room left in his head for himself.

Not that Will has any room for anything but his own fear, since he’s currently learning what it feels like to be staring down the business end of _Hannibal’s_ breed of vampire, locked and loaded and deadly and strong, _so_ fucking strong. Winston, startled by the burst of moment, leaps on the end of the bed and begins to bark his head off in alarm.

“Hannibal,” he manages to squeak over all the noise, vocal chords compressed by the hand tightening around his throat. Everything feels like slow motion, even though he knows only an instant has passed since Hannibal opened his eyes, and he swallows, throat working under the harsh press of Hannibal’s palm, and hisses desperately, “Hannibal, it’s _me_.”

Hannibal blinks once, twice, and his eyes begin to clear and sharpen as he whispers between his sharp teeth, “Will?”

Will is still too terrified to so much as move a muscle. He stares up at Hannibal’s face, wets his lips and manages to croak out despite Hannibal’s continued crushing grip on his throat, “Yeah, who else? Christ on a fucking cracker.”

“Will,” Hannibal says again, and abruptly loosens his fingers. He keeps his hand where it is, though, and searches his face as he whispers, his voice roughened by his rest, “You were afraid.”

Will finally dares enough to move, and only then just enough to raise his hand and gesture at their situation and says, “You fucking _think_? Winston, _down_.”

Winston quiets almost immediately, but doesn’t go far, instead laying down at the end of the bed to keep watch over the situation. Hannibal ignores them both, and expands his search to Will’s body, what little of it he can see where he’s pressed beneath Hannibal’s not-insignificant weight, and shakes his head, causing more of his hair to flop over his eyes. “Your fear woke me,” he murmurs, his voice gravel and glass, “I thought...”

He trails off, and looks off to one side, and there’s a shift in their bond where Will feels something he can only describe as _sheepish_. Which is probably as close to apologizing for overreacting as Will can ever expect to get. Not that he _expects_ an apology, considering mere moments before he was doing quite a lot of overreacting himself. Will’s hands tremble with spent adrenaline when he reaches up and touches Hannibal’s shoulders tentatively, watching as the tension bleeds out of tensed muscles beneath the careful brush of his fingers. “I’m human, Hannibal,” Will says softly, maybe unnecessarily, but he gets the feeling that Hannibal thinks of him so much as _other_ that it might be easy for him to forget that fact from time to time, “Sometimes I feel things. Pointlessly, usually. It happens.”

Hannibal nods, parts his lips, and Will watches in wonder as his fangs snap back up into his gums with an almost inaudible click, leaving behind no visible trace of who he really is, _what_ he really is, except for the way the many centuries he’s lived through have deepened the depths of his eyes to something unfathomable, heavy. His hand moves from Will’s throat, finally, to instead slide up to cup his cheek. “You were so _consumed_...” he says, before stopping to take a breath before admitting quietly, “After last night our connection has only strengthened, deepened. I find myself at a loss to describe the way it feels, to feel you. I am afraid I will never truly get used to it.”

Will knows well enough how rare of an occasion it is for Hannibal to be at a loss of words on any subject. His hand slides up the curve of Hannibal’s neck, fingers combing through the fine, soft hair at his temple while his thumb traces along the sharp jut of one cheekbone, and he smiles in his usual self-depreciating way. “I told you it wouldn’t always be fun,” he replies, “To feel the way that I feel.”

“Yes, you did,” Hannibal agrees, and his body stretches out more comfortably over Will’s, now, lax now that he’s made sure there is no clear and present danger. He lowers his head slowly, eyes searching Will’s as if he half-expects to be stopped from doing so, before he brushes their lips chastely together and whispers against them, “And yet, I would not trade it for anything in this world.”

Will smiles, soft, and when Hannibal pulls back he lifts his head off the pillows and tightens his fingers in Hannibal’s hair and pulls him back for another touch of their lips, tender and soft as they move against each other. This is more of the greeting after their respective rests he had imagined for them, rather than being nearly choked out and having a pair of lethal fangs gnashing an inch from his nose. When their lips part again with a soft sound, Will lays back and looks up at Hannibal, arching a brow as he asks dryly, “So is this the way I can expect to be greeted every time you rest?”

Hannibal merely blinks at him. “With a kiss?” he asks innocently, as if he has no idea what it is Will is actually referring to.

Will merely blinks back, and doesn’t rise to the bait like he usually does when Hannibal puts on his angelic vampire routine. “With attempted murder,” he corrects, voice surprisingly steady, as if he wasn’t scared completely out of his freaking wits a few seconds before.

Hannibal’s lips don’t move out of their maddeningly alluring resting shape, but there’s an honest-to-god sparkle in his eyes that lets Will know he’s amused him. “Beautiful boy,” he replies lightly, “I do not _attempt_ murder.”

Will reminds himself, not for the first time, that if he was to punch the vampire in his stupid, perfect face he would do much more harm to his hand than to the face in question. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Will grumbles, pushing lightly at Hannibal’s chest, although he really doesn’t want him to go anywhere, “And you didn’t answer my question.”

He obediently goes nonetheless, although at least he doesn’t go far; rolling off of Will in one supple movement to instead stretch out on the bed beside of him, facing him. Even though his posture is perfectly relaxed, Will doesn’t miss the way the hand that hasn’t disappeared under his pillow lingers in the spare space between them instead of touching, and his eyes don’t quite raise to meet Will’s own gaze. He looks hesitant, and it piques Will’s curiosity. He arches a brow, and waits.

“To answer your question,” Hannibal hums eventually, “I am...afraid I would not know.”

“You don’t know?” Will echoes dumbly, unsure of what part of his own sentence he means to put emphasis on—it’s _all_ emphasized, incredulous. He tries to remember if he’s ever heard the other man flat-out admit he doesn’t know something, comes up empty. It would seem, to Will, that his strange, beautiful mind is a bottomless well of knowledge that he could lose himself in indefinitely, wandering through the twists and turns of hallways until his heart’s content. He finds he doesn’t like it, Hannibal not having an answer to his every question, any more than he liked finding him looking so vulnerable in his sleep.

The two things are more closely related than he would have ever imagined, as it turns out, proven when Hannibal says softly, “I cannot predict how I may react accurately, because I have no data on which to base that prediction.”

As usual, it takes Will a full second to process Hannibal’s words. He blinks, and asks just as quietly, “You’ve never...”

“I have never rested with another, no,” Hannibal agrees. He looks sheepish again, Will notes.

Without any real thought, his hand reaches out, palm flat against Hannibal’s sternum. His skin is cold now, the warmth he borrowed from Will’s body and his blood leeched out of him during his rest. Will wonders if he would be warmer still should he have stayed with him in bed, and realizes with a start that Hannibal doesn’t know the answer to _that_ question either.

“Why?” he asks after a moment, and he sounds breathless to his own ears.

“Because I trust you,” Hannibal answers, and it sounds so easy, so simple when he says it, “With my life, Will.”

He thinks of watching Hannibal rest, and the ugly twist of possessiveness he had felt. Rightfully, as it turns out—the sight is Will’s, and Will’s alone. He thinks of Hannibal’s long life, hundreds of thousands of nights lived and just as many days where he’s fallen into his rest. And out of all of them, one has been witnessed. The first, but he knows in his heart it won’t be the last, because Hannibal is _his_ now, his monster, this predator that gentles the wrath of his claws and teeth for him and purrs under his touch and feels safe enough to let him into his den, to allow him to watch over him while he sleeps.

Will becomes aware that the predator in question is purring even now. He can feel it, rumbling beneath his palm, where his fingers have curled without thought into the fur on his chest. It sounds like the grumble of some overlarge cat that belongs in a jungle somewhere, something that looks soft and tempting but shouldn’t be safe to touch.

Hannibal is looking at him again, now; red-tinted eyes sharp and knowing. “You like that,” Hannibal whispers, soft around the eyes, the mouth.

Will is still staring, and it takes him a second to parse out what exactly Hannibal means, since he’s fairly sure all the blood in his body has headed in the opposite direction of his brain. His fingers move up to Hannibal’s neck, over the dried blood flaking off his skin from the night before when Will sank his teeth into his flesh. His thumb settles in the hollow of his throat, pressing down just lightly, and whispers, “It’s...heady. I feel like I could get drunk off of it.”

Hannibal leans towards him, as much to get closer as to feel the increased pressure of Will’s hand around his neck. “The power?” he guesses, his voice low and gravelly and accent thick enough that his words are hard for Will to decipher.

Will shakes his head, his hair sliding smooth against the silky pillowcase he lies on. “I _know_ power,” he answers, letting his fingers curl around the nape of Hannibal’s neck to pull him close. He goes, pliant and obedient, for a taste of Will’s lips when he kisses him softly. He parts his lips for him, and Will’s tongue finds his way into his mouth, stroking it against Hannibal’s human teeth until he feels the razor-blade edge of Hannibal’s fangs when he coaxes them into descending.

Hannibal groans as if he’s in pain as the few drops of Will’s blood spill into his mouth, and tries to give chase when Will pulls away, holding Hannibal at bay with his hand on his throat. They both know Will only stops him because Hannibal allows him to, which is entirely the point. Instead, his eyes fall to stare longingly at the blood on Will’s lips while he whispers, “This is more than power. Power is...explosive.”

Hannibal tilts his head curiously, but doesn’t interrupt as Will struggles to put what he feels into words, as if doing so is ever so simple. As if it’s that easy to think of anything in this moment besides how much he wants to kiss him again, to spill both their blood until they’re drunk on it and bathed in it, full of each other in more ways than he ever knew was possible, connected so intrinsically that separation is an impossibility. “This is implosive,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to Hannibal’s lips. He raises his thumb from Hannibal’s neck, and traces the curve of his lower lip as he adds softly, “These gifts you’ve given me, Hannibal...I want to gather them all up against my chest and collapse in around them. Protect them and keep them safe.”

Hannibal turns his head, kisses Will’s palm and then scrapes his fangs against the tender skin of his wrist, then leans forward to catch his lips. Their kiss is tender but thorough, and when Hannibal’s arms wrap around him Will goes, letting Hannibal pull him flush against his chest. “My sweet boy,” he murmurs against his mouth, “They are yours to do with as you please.” A pause, and then he adds softly, “As am I.”

Will hums against his lips, and kisses him again, helpless to not do so. He thinks of the power he has however unintentionally come into possession of, over the creature who kisses his mouth so sweetly. And not his own particular brand of power he exercised the night before, when slipping effortlessly into the halls of Hannibal’s mind to drag his fingers along the walls and leave his indelible mark there. Nor even when he assumed control over a being so ancient and powerful in his own right the thought of dominating and bending such a brilliant and breathtaking mind makes his chest ache.

Instead he thinks of the moment in the basement with Matthew where he stopped Hannibal in his tracks with nothing more than a hand on his chest. Thinks of Hannibal fiercely wanting to protect him, and how Will instead needs to convince him to run back into the proverbial burning building. Will breaks their kiss and leans back to get a better look at Hannibal’s face, runs his fingers through his messy hair and watches the way the other man reacts bodily to the touch. “Are you?” he asks softly, “Mine?”

Hannibal smiles just enough to show the tips of his fangs, peeking out in a flash of sharp white beneath the cover of his plush upper lip. His eyes flicker down to Winston, who is lounging lazily a few feet away, dark eyes flickering between the two of them as his bushy tail rises from the covers to wag at the attention briefly focused on him. “There is a dog in my house, in my _bed_ , Will,” he replies with a put-upon sigh, and turns back to take Will’s wrist in hand when his fingers trail a path down behind his ear to his throat as he asks, “Do you truly have to ask?” He tugs it down gently, over the blood Will spilled the night before, down further still so that Will’s palm lies flat against his chest. The heart beneath his hand is still, and has been for a thousand years, but Will knows he _doesn’t_ need to ask—dog or no dog—knows that heart belongs to him all the same.

“To do with as I wish?” he presses anyway.

Hannibal regards him with suspicion, holding his gaze for a moment before his eyes fall to where Will’s lips are struggling not to twitch upwards into a mischievous smile. “Within reason,” he answers, slow and careful and wary, even though Will is quite sure that isn’t the case. In fact, he’s fairly sure at this point he could ask Hannibal for anything and get it, which would be yet another heady power trip should he have the wherewithal to embark on it at the moment.

He’s all geared up to tell Hannibal his earlier thoughts, his conclusions, what he believes needs to be done. The plan that is in its infant stages in his mind, awaiting Hannibal’s wisdom, his guiding hand, to help him coax it through to fruition.

Instead what comes out of his mouth is a slow drawl, every vowel rolling off his tongue and every consonant ending with a pointed click.

“I want you to fuck me again,” he murmurs, looking at Hannibal through half-lowered lashes.

It has the intended effect, as evidenced by the way Hannibal’s lips part and his eyes darken. The chest beneath Will’s hand erupts in another sound that is better suited to that same jungle cat, something between a hum and a purr, as he leans in close and presses his lips against Will’s and murmurs against them, “You truly are a terror.”

“Hm,” Will croons in agreement with a grin against Hannibal’s lips, his fingers moving along cool, soft skin to grip Hannibal’s shoulders and dig in with his fingers, drawing him ever closer, “You love it.”

Hannibal is smiling too even as he kisses him, and lets Will pull and tug until he’s lying against him. The coolness of his skin makes Will’s feel even more feverish in contrast, and he moans softly into Hannibal’s mouth as their legs slide together over the silk sheets. “I do,” Hannibal purrs, nipping at Will’s lower lip gently even with his sharp teeth, “Frightfully.”

Will can feel how much he wants him, too, an echo of his own desire in the back of his mind; for all that Hannibal speaks of the way Will feels emotion so strongly, Will feels sure that Hannibal’s are a wildfire compared to Will’s candle flame. Everything he’s felt from him—his rage upon waking earlier, arousal now, the all-encompassing love and _want_ Will nearly drowned in the moment their connection went live the night before—all of it Hannibal feels boundlessly, in a way Will as a human can’t quite wrap his head around. Whatever Hannibal feels, he feels it with one-hundred percent of his being, with all of his thousand years bearing down behind it. When resting, their bond’s absence is already becoming intolerable. When he’s awake, it’s a constant, unrelenting deluge that Will knows deep down, even if he’s not yet ready to fully admit it to himself, that he wants to drown in for the rest of his days.

It’s so distracting for Will that he doesn’t register the thread of amusement that twirls its way through Hannibal’s lust until he’s pulling away, smiling at Will with a grin so charming and beautiful it makes Will’s chest ache to witness, distracts him enough that he allows Hannibal to begin to disengage even though all the wants is to yank the other man closer and closer until he is buried inside of him to the hilt. “If that is what you want, you will certainly have it,” Hannibal is saying, shifting to crawl backwards and away from Will in some sort of reverse-prowl that should look more awkward than it does as he adds, “But you must wait.”

Will blinks, and tries not to sound completely like a petulant child as he asks, “But _why_?”

Hannibal is still smiling as his feet touch the floor and he climbs off the bed, straightening. Winston leaps down to sit neatly at his feet, staring up at Hannibal like he hung the moon—no doubt remembering who presented him with that warm, delicious meal the night before. “Because,” Hannibal replies, reaching down to step into the lounge pants he discarded the night before and pull them up, adjusting the waistband over his erection that disputes his words even as he adds, “If I have you now, we will not leave this bed all night. And as lovely as that would no doubt be, you and I have matters to discuss, plans to make.”

Intellectually, Will knows this to be true, even if he knows that the things he wants to set in motion differ vastly from the plans Hannibal wants to make. He also knows that no matter how much information he gleaned from Hannibal—from both his words and the unspoken stories Will watched unfold in his mind—there is much left that needs explaining. And he wants so desperately to know: to understand how Hannibal’s kind is so different from Matthew and Cordell’s, to make sense of how all the pieces of this horrific puzzle fit together.

Rationally, he knows all of this. Irrationally, he feels that if he doesn’t have Hannibal inside him soon, cock and teeth and whatever else is on offer, he might keel over and die.

Will makes a soft sound that he hopes relays all of this and stretches indulgently, before rolling over onto his stomach and wrapping his arms around the pillow. He presses his cheek against it, and looks back at Hannibal over his shoulder, who has bent to retrieve his cast-off sweater, with eyes so sweet and sad he would put Winston’s best puppy-eyes to shame. Hannibal freezes for a moment, eyes moving from Will’s face, down the slope of his spine, to the curve of his ass and his slightly spread thighs, and back again. “A terror,” he says again, his voice gone ever so slightly hoarse, which Will counts as a small triumph. But despite Will’s best efforts at seduction, and much to his dismay, Hannibal tugs his sweater down over his head and adds as he straightens the hem, “A terror that needs nourishment. Come, my love; I shall make you breakfast.”

After the night beginning for them as it did, Will isn’t ready to give up so easily. He stretches again, arching his back and tilts his head to the side to expose his throat, and murmurs sleepily, “Hm. And what about _your_ breakfast?”

Hannibal is watching him hungrily, and has taken a step closer to the bed without seeming to realize it. His eyes are wandering again, and as they linger on Will’s backside, his fingers twitch just once, like it’s taking all of his self-control not to touch. His voice has dropped an octave when he speaks again, and it does terrible, wonderful things to Will’s insides. “My breakfast needs breakfast before he can become my breakfast,” he rumbles, then frowns at his own words. “I do not eat _breakfast.”_

Will turns his head to hide his smile in his pillow, and arches his back again. He’s not sure what’s gotten into him, exactly, but he knows the lack thereof is completely the point. “ _Hannibal_ ,” he murmurs as he stretches, drawing out the syllables in his name for a whole lot longer than is necessary as he lifts his hips and lengthens his spine, “Come back to bed.”

He hears Hannibal’s throaty growl and then the sound of his footsteps, and he feels like he’s won for all of a split second. The bed dips behind him, and he feels triumphant. Then, two cool hands link around his ankles and _pull_ , tugging him to the edge of the bed and over the side, and he makes a terrible sound entirely too close to a squeak for his liking as he ends up in a pile next to his own discarded clothes from the night before.

“Hey!” he cries out, and although he wants to be indignant, the sound of Hannibal’s exceedingly rare, deep and dark laughter soothes whatever hackles had tried to stand. Winston yips and bounds over, and begins to jubilantly lap at Will’s face until he pushes the dog away and glares at Hannibal, who is watching him from a few feet away. Or, at least, he _means_ to glare. But Hannibal is standing there, pale and beautiful with major bedhead, and grinning wide enough to expose the tips of his crooked teeth and crinkle the corners of his eyes, and all Will really wants to do is crawl on his hands and knees over to him and worship like a supplicant at his alter.

Instead, he climbs to his feet. “Fine,” he huffs, dusting off his bare skin of invisible dust, since he’s fairly sure none actually exists in the meticulously clean house at all. In fact, even with him standing naked in front of him, Hannibal is eyeing the clothes on the floor in such a way Will is surprised that his eye isn’t twitching. Will gives him an annoyed look, and then reaches down and scoops them all up, since they are all his doing—his pajama pants from the night before, the sinfully soft borrowed robe, and the two ties which Hannibal zeroes in on with narrowed eyes when Will makes his way past him towards the closet, where he earlier saw a piece of actual furniture serving as a clothes hamper.

Hannibal pulls at them as Will walks past, and they slide easily from the pile in Will’s arms, still tied together in the middle. Will pauses to watch as Hannibal plucks at the knot creasing the silky fabric in the wrong place, his bewildered expression not doing justice to how aghast Will feels him to be through the bond. “ _Why_?” is all he says, and Will laughs to himself as he enters the closet.

“Winston needs a leash,” he replies, and hears Hannibal’s sharp intake of breath behind him as he follows him into the smaller—but not by much—room.

“You used my ties,” Hannibal says slowly, “As a leash. On a _dog_.”

Will dumps the clothes in the hamper, and then thinks better of it, and retrieves the robe. Hannibal might be able to force him from the bed, but that doesn’t mean he has to actually get dressed. He is still wrapping it around him when he turns to face Hannibal, who still holds the two ties limply in his hand. “I did,” he answers, tying the belt of the robe around his waist loosely, “And they looked great on him, by the way.”

Hannibal’s upper lip curls, just barely, which Will knows from him could mean anything from mild irritation all the way up to literal bloody murder, but Will has the inside scoop now—he can feel him, and what’s dominating his emotions at the moment is a rather benign case of completely exasperated warmth. He looks down at the ties in his hand forlornly and says, “I had these made in Italy.” When Will is clearly not moved, he adds pointedly, “Seventy years ago.”

Will grins and creeps closer, bare feet shuffling and toes sinking into the plush carpet. “Then it’s high time you replaced them, hm?” he replies, and turns to leave, heading towards the door.

“They are— _were—_ irreplaceable,” Hannibal laments, moving past him to toss them rather dramatically into the small wastebasket in the corner of the room before following him back into the bedroom, “And exceedingly rare. The designer did not live long after they were made.” Will doesn’t ask if Hannibal himself killed him, since he’s fairly sure the man would rather have turned him so he could keep on making his precious ties for eternity if he had gotten the chance. “Honestly, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will stops and turns to meet his eyes, biting his lip so he doesn’t laugh at the frustrated tone he takes, as if _this_ is finally the thing that pushes him over the edge of not being able to deal with Will and his shit, “I will order leashes for your dog. Hundreds of them, if that will keep my ties safe from the two of you.”

This time Will does laugh, and steps close enough to touch Hannibal, fingers rising to brush gently against the dip of his throat just above the collar of his soft sweater. “I don’t doubt that for a minute, but I needed a leash _now_ ,” he replies, letting his fingers dip a little lower beneath his sweater until he feels the beginnings of the hair on Hannibal’s chest, “Winston can hardly be expected to cross his legs and wait until a leash gets here, you know. Or would you rather I have waited, and you could have woken up to shit and piss all over your _irreplaceable_ and _exceedingly rare_ rugs?”

Hannibal’s lips part on an outraged breath at the mere thought, and Will is geared up to laugh at him again, until all of the sudden Hannibal’s countenance abruptly changes, his expression darkening as his eyes sharpen and a hot spike of anxiety sears through Will second-hand, shocking him enough to make him go rigid. “You went outside?” Hannibal asks, his voice a dangerously soft slip.

Once again, Hannibal is feeling what he feels so strongly that Will barely has room for anything else. His muscles are tense, and the roots of his teeth itch to tear into something, his voice coming out hoarse and confused as he whispers, “Yes?”

“ _Will.”_ Hannibal says the single word quietly, but it still packs a punch, rumbling through Will and around through the bedroom as ominous as the first crackle of thunder before the bottom drops out. Even Winston, who had been peeking in at them from the doorway, must feel it; letting out a single plaintive whine and scrambling out of the room and into the hallway with his tail tucked between his legs.

For his part, Will isn’t sure if it’s his meager prey instincts reacting or if it’s something to do with their newly bonded blood, but either way, he feels the urge to cower away from Hannibal. But he doesn’t, and instead sets his jaw and squares his shoulders against it. He remembers Hannibal saying the night before in the car that he wasn’t going to allow Will out of his sight, and remembers his indignation at the thought, which comes rushing back to him now as he hisses, “What, I’m not even allowed to go outside now? Fuck _that_.”

“Must I remind you,” Hannibal says slowly and carefully, eyes narrowed and alight, “That just last night you were called to rouse a corpse that bared a striking resemblance to you, Will?”

“Do you think that’s something someone just _forgets_?” Will shoots back testily.

Hannibal’s growl rumbles throughout the room, and he steps even closer, looming. “I believe you are forgetting a great many things, my darling,” he purrs darkly. His eyes tear from Will’s long enough to travel down the length of his body, over the column of his throat, the v-shaped expanse of his chest exposed by his borrowed robe, down to his bare feet and back up again. “I believe you are forgetting that, whatever power lies within that fascinating mind of yours, you are only human,” he says, voice soft and cutting at the same time like silk covering a steel blade, and reaches out to wrap his fingers around Will’s throat for the second time that night as he adds in a whisper, “Such a beautiful body. One that I crave beyond all reason. And yet, it is but a glass cage of brittle bone and blood. Easily broken. _Fragile_.”

He squeezes his fingers too tight for a moment, letting Will feel but a fraction of his true strength, but even still it’s enough that Will feels his airway close and his breath stutter to a sudden stop beneath his palm. Will’s eyes widen with panic, trying to gasp in a breath, and feels his power flicker to life within him, awakening from the peaceful slumber the night before had left it in. The dark, shadowy beast inside of Will is ravenous, wide awake now and called forth in defense of its master, much in the same way that it was the night in the stairwell. Will feels it crackling through his veins, burning hot and racing electric beneath his skin, pressing up against his ribs as it unfurls its wings and stomps its hooves, tosses its head and threatens with razor-sharp antlers.

It would seem that Hannibal can feel it too, although Will doesn’t know if he’s feeling it first-hand because of their bond or if his heightened senses are experiencing the change in the atmosphere around them, the same as the way a humid summer night might draw itself up tight before belching out a treacherous storm, or both. Either way, his eyes have gone full dark, pupil eclipsing the iris, and his fangs slam down so fast one cuts into his bottom lip, spilling a drop of blood. Will smells it, sharp and sweet, even if he can’t quite take in a breath. His tongue knows the taste, his body knows how it feels inside him, singing through his veins.

He doesn’t heed the sense of danger rising like a tide around them. His fingers tighten around Will’s throat, his thumb pressing deep into his flesh against his pulse to feel it race, and he leans closer, staring so unblinkingly and intently into his eyes Will swears he can feel his gaze searing through him. “My love,” he growls, and even the sweet words have sharp teeth, “I think you must be forgetting already what it felt like to have your very life slipping through your fingers. But I assure you, I have not forgotten what it felt like to have my hands trying to hold your life inside you. I have not forgotten the feeling of your skin growing cold, your pulse becoming weak, the life in those eyes of yours beginning to dim.” Will gulps, staring up at him wide eyed, as he adds vehemently, “I will remember for both of us, if I must. If I live until the end of time itself, Will, I shall _never_ forget.”

Will’s vision is beginning to dim around the edges, but instead of blackness closing in, it’s a dark, vicious, pulsating red. He knows it’s his power swelling up within him, strengthening him even as his body weakens. But that’s not all it is, it’s not all _him;_ he can feel Hannibal so clearly, see right through his sharp-toothed anger to feel how afraid he is, and just how foreign an emotion that is for him to feel. He fears losing Will, losing what they have together, feels the abysmal depth of the love that causes it, tearing and rending his insides, making him feel feral and wild, lashing out against it in the only way he can manage.

But Will can lash out, too.

His hand shakily rises, fingers gripping around the fine bones in Hannibal’s wrist, and the touch along with the connection in their blood is more than enough for Will to bid his power to grow teeth and claws, then let it off its leash. He feels Hannibal go rigid as it hits him, fingers tightening momentarily around Will’s throat with such great, terrifying strength that Will worries for his head’s continued attachment to his body. And even though unlike the night before Hannibal hasn’t welcomed Will’s power into his body, and he snarls through his teeth and rages against it with all his might, Will slips in so easily like returning home after a long, arduous journey, feels every nerve ending and every ounce of magic in Hannibal’s blood rising up to return to the one to which they truly belong.

In his mind, Will wraps his hands greedily around it all, and swallows it whole.

“ _Let go_ ,” he grinds out, and hears the unnatural timbre of his voice reverberating like rolling thunder through them both, around them both. Hannibal’s eyes are wide and dark, so dark, his face twisted into an inhuman snarl, but his fingers loosen immediately and Will easily snatches his hand away from his throat, lets it fall away. He steps in closer, wraps his own hand around the broad expanse of Hannibal’s throat, lets the shiver rack his body from the sensation of their powers combined but under his sole control as he hisses out, “ _Kneel_.”

Hannibal goes down to his knees like some unseen force swept his legs out from under him, and the sound of bone impacting the smooth and polished wood floor is nearly deafening in the silence. Will stares down at him, thumb digging harshly into the underside of Hannibal’s chin, forcing him to raise his head. He stares up at Will, kneeling like a supplicant in front of an alter, an ancient god bowing in worship to a lesser deity. That dark creature inside of Will purrs loudly, pleased and hungry, within the confines of his skull at the sight.

Where the corpses he raises suck his power from him as efficiently as any vampire, leaving him an empty shell filled with riotous thoughts and emotions that aren’t his own, Hannibal is not truly dead. He has his own brand of power, and no need to borrow Will’s own to reanimate. Instead, Will feels as though it’s harnessed, mixed with his own until it’s one in the same, and it’s all his, _his_ , his for the taking, his to use as he sees fit.

He feels drunk on it. Feels too full from the endless feedback loop between the two of them, between their power and their bonded blood, and he jerks his head, cracking his neck to relieve the pressure building at the place where his skull meets his spine as he stares down at his apostle and smiles with teeth that ache at the roots to sink deep and rend and tear until there’s nothing left.

“And what about what _you_ have forgotten, Hannibal?” he asks, his voice a low growl, tightening his hand on Hannibal’s throat and watching with glee as the vampire’s eyes roll, showing more white than honeyed red when Will lets loose another pulse of power. The thick muscles of Hannibal’s shoulders strain underneath the knitted fabric of his sweater, and Will’s smile widens, knowing intrinsically that Hannibal is fighting against him not because he wants to win, but because he—just like Will, always so alike—wants to feel along the edges of his restraints, to throw himself against the walls closing in around him just to see if they’ll yield. “I may be more fragile than you, Hannibal, but in the end we are _all_ breakable,” he says, and his lips pull tight against his teeth as he hisses out, “Even you. Even _him_.”

Will steps back then, and Hannibal sucks in a breath, chest heaving around the sound as he stays where Will put him, on his knees in the middle of his own bedroom floor. The loss of a physical connection allows Hannibal to take back a modicum of control over his own mind, his own body, but Will can still feel the connection, and knows Hannibal can too. He stays where he is, panting and staring up at Will like he’s seeing the face of god before him.

He looks at him the same when Will uses him like nothing more than a puppet, cowing him to his will, as he does when he’s fucking him. When he’s being _fucked_.

The power Will holds over him nearly chokes him. It makes him long to know what it will feel like to use it for darker purposes; to hurt, to _kill_. How it might feel to get inside Mason’s head, Cordell’s, and force them to tear themselves apart piece by piece as they have done to countless others. He could blame it on Hannibal’s influence, on his blood, but he knows better. He knows his own thirst for blood was born many years ago, and he wants to spill it, watch it flow, bathe in it and paint Hannibal in it and lick every inch of him clean.

Hannibal’s expression changes, just barely but just enough for Will to mark the shift, and know that Hannibal can feel the direction Will’s thoughts have taken. His eyes darken, pupils dilating to eclipse all the color that was left, and his lip curls up to bare his sharp fangs. Not in a snarl, but in a smile, because he knows, he _knows,_ of course he knows. Will isn’t sure if it’s the connection of their blood, or Will’s power rattling around in his skull, and supposes it doesn’t matter anymore.

They are conjoined. Intertwined. And if there was ever any hope of separation, they’re too far gone now. It’s ugly, twisted, and a mess.

To Will, it’s _beautiful._

It’s also _entirely_ the point.

He bares his own teeth in a twist of a smile. “You know what else you seem to forget, Hannibal?” Will asks, and Hannibal’s eyes narrow, as if he already knows what Will is going to say.

“Will—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Will grinds out, letting his power loose once more, watching Hannibal’s near-violent, physical flinch as he feels it lash against him, feeling giddy at the sight.

Still, Hannibal manages to hiss out between his clenched teeth, “ _Language_.”

Will laughs, once, breathless and true, and with another surge of his power forces Hannibal _up_ , back on his feet, like a puppet whose strings were abruptly pulled taunt. Hannibal snarls at the loss of control in surprise, as surprised as Will is to see it happen. Thus far, his powers have relied heavily on touch, on contact, and flexing his mind’s muscles is as terrifying as it is invigorating. He wants to stop and wants to force Hannibal to his knees again in equal measure.

Instead, he effortlessly calls his power back to him, to heel like a well-trained pet, so that his voice is his own, albeit shaky and rough, as he finally whispers, “You seem to _fucking_ forget that we’re _fucking_ in this together now, Hannibal.” Hannibal tilts his head and parts his lips, just barely, and even with the fine tremble running through him as Will’s power recedes the motion makes him look predatory, dangerous.

Hannibal _is_ predatory and dangerous. But as of late, Will has become distinctly aware of just how dangerous _he_ can be when he wants to be, too.

Hannibal is absolutely still as Will prowls closer. He’s half expecting the vampire to flinch away from him when he comes close enough to touch, when he reaches out with a hand that has proven capable of bending him until he breaks, to brush his fingers along his jaw. But Hannibal doesn’t shy away, instead pressing his cheek into Will’s palm as readily as he did in his kitchen that night, admittedly afraid and unsure of what Will is capable of. He knows, now, he’s seen; and yet he still doesn’t hesitate.

Will loves him, _loves_ him, so fucking much his knees feel weak with the force of it. Sees Hannibal’s lips part on a ragged breath as he’s inundated with it through their bond, and Will knows in his heart that the decision he’s come to is the right one, knows that he can make Hannibal _see_.

“I saw her last night,” Will whispers, raising his eyes to meet Hannibal’s gaze, and then he _does_ flinch, “I felt her, Hannibal. And I felt your love for her, your loss of her and what it did to you, like it was my own.” He wets his lips, holds Hannibal’s eyes and says harsher than he means to, “You can’t give her to me and then expect me to let you let her go. To expect _me_ to let her go.”

Hannibal’s eyes are like black, shining pools; oil slicks on top of churning dark oceans. “If you felt that, then you should understand why I cannot live through it again,” he whispers, his voice ragged as if it’s torn loose from somewhere deep within him, his hand rising to rest over Will’s where it lies against his cheek. “ _Imagine what he will do when he finds out he’s_ _yours,”_ he says softly, and it takes Will a moment to recognize the words, to remember them coming from the vampire Matthew’s jagged mouth, spoken to them both in the basement below them shortly before Hannibal ended him. “I _can_ imagine, Will,” he whispers on an agonized breath, “He tortured her and killed her and fed her to me, for his own amusement. And he will do it again, do _worse_ , Will.” Will feels his eyes burning with unshed tears, then, watching as Hannibal swallows and says, “I won’t let him take you from me. I will do whatever I have to do, to protect you, to _keep_ you.”

“It’s not your choice!” Will whispers harshly, voice trembling, wrenching himself away from him.

“Is it not?” Hannibal shoots back as Will paces away, “Losing her wasn’t my choice. I was _stripped_ of choice, for the entirety of my human life. I can make the choice now, and will make it.” His chin raises slightly as he adds softly but adamantly, “For both of us.”

Will rounds on him and looks at him, _really_ looks at him. Standing there, barefoot in his pajamas, ancient and powerful and still caught in the spider’s web, just as much as he himself is. It’s suddenly all so clear to him, he doesn’t know how he’s never seen it before this very moment. All of his anger drifts away as suddenly as it came on, leaving him feeling drained and tired but adamant. “Don’t you see, Hannibal?” Will asks, voice pitched low in the ringing silence of the room, “You’re _still_ stripped of choice. We both are, and we both always will be, until we _end this_.”

Hannibal shakes his head and whispers, “Not everything is your fight to take on, Will.”

“It was _my_ fight before I even met you, Hannibal,” Will tells him. Thinks of his father’s dying moments, thinks of Mischa, rosy-cheeked and giggling in a frigid, ancient forest. Thinks of the boy Hannibal once was, afraid and alone and desperately trying to protect her from her fate. Looks at the man before him now, who is so ready to throw it all away. “You’re right, though,” Will agrees, voice soft, “It’s not my fight, and it’s not yours, not anymore.” He wets his lips, makes his way closer, eyes still unrelenting on Hannibal’s as he says quietly but vehemently, “It’s _ours_. My father, your sister—they brought us together, _gave_ us this, Hannibal. We owe it to them to make this right.”

“Why will you not let this go?” Hannibal asks softly, reaching out when Will comes close enough to lay a hand at the base of his throat, touch gentled this time where before it was harsh, punishing. His voice is rough when he parts his lips to whisper, a plea wearing the mask of a question, “Why will you not let me protect you, like I couldn’t protect her?”

Will smiles, soft and pained. “Because I love you, Hannibal,” he whispers honestly, drawing close enough that he feels Hannibal’s cool breath against his lips when he exhales sharply at Will’s words, the only sign of life from the man who has gone utterly still. “More than I thought myself capable of loving anyone,” he says, repeating Hannibal’s own words in the car back to him, eyes dropping to his lips as he whispers, “So fiercely it borders on madness.”

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers, just like Will did in the car, and leans in to kiss him. Their lips meet, soft and shaky, something fragile and breakable in every press of their lips.

Will pulls away from his mouth, leaves his hands clutching in the soft fabric of Hannibal’s sweater. “We can’t run from this,” Will says, as Hannibal stares back at him with a dark, unblinking gaze. “You know we can’t. He’ll find us, Hannibal, wherever we go. Whatever he wants me for—he will find me. You know he will.” Hannibal says nothing, and Will makes a frustrated noise. “You said he can control you. Compel you,” he whispers a twinge of fear leaking into his voice. Hannibal swallows thickly and looks away. Nods, finally, but just the barest twitch of his chin, and Will feels a pulse of despair through their bond that makes his chest ache, his eyes water. “Wherever are, if it’s here or on the other side of the world,” Will says softly, “He can force you to bring me to him.”

Hannibal’s eyes are still downcast as if he can’t bear to look Will, but his eyes are wet, rimmed with red, expression stricken. “He can,” he agrees, his accent and the tears he isn’t letting fall thickening his words, even more so when he admits with quiet surety that makes Will shiver in fear, “He will. It’s only a matter of time, now.”

Will nods. Some part of him already knew this, and it softens the blow. If Mason calls for Hannibal, he’ll have no choice but to obey. And Will knows neither of them will survive it. Their end wouldn’t come by Mason’s hand, not really—he has no doubt that Mason would draw out their suffering as long as he possibly could just to amuse himself. Even if Mason turned him, made him into what he is, what Hannibal is, so that he could torture him just as indefinitely as he has Hannibal, so there would be no expiration date on his fun—Will knows now, without a doubt, what both of them could never survive.

 _Separation_.

Whatever becomes of them, it will become of them _together_.

Will ducks his head, fingers on Hannibal’s chin forcing him to finally turn his eyes enough to meet his gaze. Will leans in, and Hannibal closes the distance, their lips meeting in a kiss that is both desperate and achingly sweet, makes Will’s heart clutch up when he feels the love, the fear, the reckless despondence behind it echoing his own through their bonded blood.

Will pulls back, presses his forehead against Hannibal’s, injects more confidence in his voice than he feels—than he knows _Hannibal_ knows he feels. “We’ll force him to come to _us_ ,” he whispers, a solemn oath, “Before he gets the chance.”

Hannibal’s eyes close for a moment as if he’s pained, but when he opens them he slowly nods, the hair spilling over his brow brushing against Will’s temples. He breathes out, pulls away just enough to straighten and meet Will’s pleading gaze. Will can see the terrible tug-of-war going on behind his eyes; see the moment when the rope breaks, and the part of him that has stayed viciously in control of his own destiny relinquishes the reins of his future over to another. A human—different, but human nonetheless. One that he loves, _trust_ _s_ enough to lay himself bare for over and over, enough to invite him inside his den to watch over him while the monster slumbers.

Will would expect this to break him. But instead there is steel in his spine again, diamond-sharpness in his eyes as he asks softly, “My beautiful, brave, _reckless_ boy. I assume you have something in mind?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Will whispers, reaching up to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, “I think we should try to send him a message.” He smiles darkly, and it feels strange there after the last few minutes, but it’s there all the same; excitement has unexpectedly begun creeping through him. The monster inside of him purrs through his own voice as he adds softly, “And I think I know _just_ who the messenger should be.”

Hannibal watches him for a moment in silence, his eyes glittering now, too; his own monster coming up to disturb the placid pool of his surface, seeking its mate as he whispers, “Your will, my hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I did a poll on twitter about chapter lengths and after the results I feel like I've probably chased some people away with these super long chapters but?? these boys won't shut up? and splitting chapters in weird places and making y'all wait two weeks to find out what happens next feels wrong to me, so. if long chapters aren't your thing I am SO SORRY and I have little to no control over what is happening here D: pleasedontleaveme
> 
> anyway, if you're still here, thank you so much for continuing to read. thank you with extra sugar on top for reading and commenting--your comments have somehow become the best thing in my life. I still can't quite find the words to describe what it means to me to know you're enjoying something I've created, gosh. hearing from y'all is no shit the highlight of my week ♡


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it done?” Will asks softly. Hannibal nods, and holds out his hand. There is blood under his nails, Will can see it even with the low light, even with the yawning ache of distance between them.
> 
> He still takes it, allows Hannibal to draw him in close. Tilts his head back so that Hannibal can kiss him, slow and deep. “There will be no turning back, now,” Hannibal whispers against his lips.
> 
> \--
> 
> In which Will sets his vampire loose, with purpose.

Hannibal leaves in the wee hours of the morning.

Will spends the dragging hours he’s gone wandering through the house, which seems entirely too large without Hannibal’s presence. He refers to this as wandering in his head, because pacing seems like something a crazy person would do.

He refuses to contemplate on how crazy it makes him to have set a vampire loose on the world in the first place.

Whatever he’s been doing—wandering, pacing—he does it with Winston trotting along happily behind him. When the sun begins to break across the horizon, spilling shades of rose around the edges of the drawn drapes over the many windows, and Hannibal still hasn’t returned home, Will’s wanderings narrow down to making small circles through the kitchen and dining room, where Hannibal’s presence looms the largest.

Eventually he hears the now-familiar rumbling purr of Hannibal’s car coming up the driveway, and skids to a stop in socked feet in the hallway just as Hannibal himself walks through the door. They watch each other warily as Hannibal closes it behind him. He’s a pale apparition in the suffocating darkness of the windowless space as he places a bag that reeks of blood and meat to Will’s sharpened senses on the floor by his feet, unwinds his scarf and removes his overcoat, hanging them both with care on the rack by the door. His movements are steady and even as they always are, and Will lets out a breath he feels as though he’s been holding since he saw him off in exactly the same spot hours before.

It seems asinine to Will now that Hannibal is back in front of him, whole and unharmed, to have worried so deeply for his well-being while he was away. Hannibal can, of course, fend perfectly well for himself. “You’re back,” Will says quietly all the same, when Hannibal finishes with his tasks and turns to face him.

“I am,” Hannibal agrees lightly, his deep voice like a balm on Will’s tattered nerves.

Will takes a few shaky steps forward, pauses, then a few more. “Is it done?” he asks softly. Hannibal nods, and holds out his hand. There is blood under his nails, Will can see it even with the low light, even with the yawning ache of distance between them.

He still takes it, allows Hannibal to draw him in close. Tilts his head back, so that Hannibal can kiss him, slow and deep. “There will be no turning back, now,” Hannibal whispers against his lips.

His words are ominous, but Will only feels relief. So much so that he falls to his knees right there in the hallway, unfastens Hannibal’s pants and sucks him down. Feels those blood-crusted nails scratching against his scalp when Hannibal makes a soft sound and runs his hand through Will’s hair, pulling him closer.

They barely make it upstairs, but they somehow manage, shutting a whining and perturbed Winston out in the hallway behind them. They shed their clothes in strangled silence, their eyes fastened on each other the entire time, breathing in each other’s space.

Hannibal presses Will face-down into the mattress and sinks down behind him, licks and sucks at his hole like a man starved until Will feels obscenely wet and spread wide and then drapes himself over Will’s back, covering him completely, and fucks him slow and sweet until Will is sobbing into the sheets. He comes hard enough that he sees sparks behind his eyes, warm over their fingers, laced together as they are around his cock.

Afterwards, Will is still breathing hard, chest rising and falling against Hannibal’s which has already gone back to being perfectly still. He draws Hannibal’s hand to his panting mouth, drags his tongue through his own mess there, tastes Hannibal’s skin beneath it. Tests the tip of his tongue against the blood darkening to brown beneath one of Hannibal’s neatly-trimmed nails.

He remembers Hannibal’s off-hand comment at the crime scene about Alana being unpalatable to him, now, and knows enough now to draw his own conclusions over the reason for that. This werewolf’s blood doesn’t taste any different to Will than his own, which he’s tasted often enough now on Hannibal’s tongue to remember the irony flavor of it with perfect clarity.

“I hope you cleaned up the scene better than you cleaned up yourself,” he murmurs idly.

Hannibal’s chest rumbles with a slightly irritated sound. “Need I remind you that I have been doing this for a thousand years?” he asks. Will doesn’t look up, but he can hear the smile in Hannibal’s voice, lilting the lazy smudge his accent gives his words, thicker than usual as it always is when they lie together like this. Amused, probably, at this human with his tiny blip of a life trying to tell him his business, but Will makes a grumbling sound and persists.

“Need I remind you that forensics are a relatively new development?” he counters, smirking himself as he adds, “I didn’t see _that_ degree in your office. I have one, you know.”

Hannibal hums thoughtfully. “I _didn’t_ know that,” he murmurs, and it strikes Will again that despite in some ways knowing each other more completely than would be possible for anyone else to even so much as understand, there is still so much they don’t know about each other. He feels like he could tell Hannibal everything there is to know about himself in one night, whereas even if Hannibal started now and never stopped talking, he probably couldn’t even cover a bare outline of all that he’s lived, _seen_ , before Will dies of old age. The thought brings him up short, makes him choke on a breath, but if Hannibal notices—and Will harbors no doubt that he does—he chooses not to remark on it. Instead, with that smile still audible in his voice, like one who is allowing a child to win an argument, he says, “Perhaps you will give me some pointers, when Jack inevitably gives you a ring.”

Will frowns at that. “I just hope it’s not Jack himself giving you pointers in a holding cell,” he grumbles.

“He would never make as far as a holding cell, should he decide to try,” Hannibal replies smugly. Will rolls his eyes, and Hannibal frees his hand from Will’s, reaches up to catch his chin between his dirty fingers to force Will to look up at him. His eyes roam over Will’s face for a moment, looking for something while Will stares at him placidly. “You are much more calm about this, than I had imagined you would be,” he says finally.

Will shrugs one bare shoulder. “You let me pick him,” he responds honestly. And he had—Will still isn’t quite over Hannibal breaking out a freaking Rolodex for him to thumb through, like choosing an item off a menu. As it turned out, Hannibal wasn’t choosy about who he fed on, blood-wise, outside of making sure they were healthy and clean; but when procuring his meat, Will had discovered the man had a rather odd set of standards.

And, an even odder way of keeping up with those marked souls that were not long for this world. Some were business cards, some were just names, or even vague references to places where a person had the absolute misfortune to cross his path...people who Hannibal, who had all the time in the world, after all, was letting marinate until time and distance made the timing right to pluck those particular ripe fruits.

Will wanted to be bothered, maybe even outraged, but as Hannibal readily explained what each of them had done, he had wondered at how many more there have been, how many have been scoured from the earth. How many more bad people Hannibal had plucked from the planet than Will had been able to, even with the law on his side. He’s not stupid enough to believe that his lover is some sort of vigilante, but there was some poetic justice to the scum of the earth landing themselves on Hannibal’s table.

He understands Hannibal’s pathology, knows where it began. Will had caught the brittle edges of an ancient memory a few nights before when he did his epic swan dive into Hannibal’s mind, and although he’s not sure he wants to do anything _less_ in this world, he can remember with perfect clarity the way Mischa had tasted on Hannibal’s tongue. Eating her certainly explained his beginnings, but Will felt a nearly intolerable amount of curiosity regarding the _how’s_ and _why’s_ of the practice’s continuation, of the creation of the Hannibal that stood before him then, a finely-honed blade cleanly cutting out every blight on society he comes across.

When he asked, he had only gotten one of Hannibal’s irritatingly inscrutable smiles in answer, and a gently-spoken answer that actually answered jack shit.

_Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude, darling._

He made it sound so logical. Not for the first time and certainly not meant to be the last, Will realizes that the man he loves is out of his fucking mind.

Eventually, at random, Will had plucked out the name of a man who had been the social worker for a patient of Hannibal’s several years prior. He had gotten off on a technicality in a case where he was accused of doing things to those in his charge that set Will’s teeth on edge just to hear about. While Will turned the card over between his fingers, Hannibal calmly explained he had followed him one night, and had caught the stink of werewolf on him—he had been turned at some point after his trial, which no doubt only made him more violent. _That_ happy coincidence was just too big for Will to ignore.

Will had slid the card across the kitchen island to Hannibal without a word, his choice made. He signed another man’s death warrant—to prove a _point_ , no less—without batting an eyelash. He’s not the same person he was when he and Hannibal met, but that’s only because Hannibal has been gently peeling back the layers upon layers of masks and falsities that Will has spent his whole life piling on, since the moment he first walked through the door to his office.

Despite all his hard work to bring Will to this point, Hannibal is somehow still surprised to find Will so oddly at peace.

Will himself is less surprised. Really, the only thing he _wasn’t_ calm about was that Hannibal hadn’t allowed him to come with him on his hunt. And not only because he found himself to be wildly uncomfortable with letting Hannibal out of his sight—but because that dark presence within himself that he has slowly been coming to accept during the time he’s known Hannibal had purred, pleased, at the thought of watching the light leave that particular pig’s eyes.

Hannibal wouldn’t budge on this though, and Will has learned the man is nothing if not an unstoppable force.

As it was, the man had died for what Will figures is a good cause, one that he truly isn’t even good enough to be a part of. He is a sigil, now, just waiting to be spotted. And Hannibal is home safe, in his arms—for now, anyway. He knows the bag Hannibal brought home with him was filled with pieces of the man that need to be packaged and stowed away in one of the freezers hidden downstairs, a task from which Will temporarily distracted him from dealing with.

He feels rather smug about that, but otherwise he just feels calm. He knows Hannibal can feel it, just as clearly, resonating through their bonded blood. So he decides not to say anything at all in response, and instead worms his way closer until his head tucks beneath Hannibal’s chin, cheek against his silent heart.

He feels the sweet ache Hannibal left inside of him with the movement. Closes his eyes, and lets himself drift. Jack will be calling, soon enough.

*

The call comes mid-morning.

Will wakes up in bed alone. He can hear the answering echo of Hannibal’s phone beeping somewhere downstairs with a text message, even as his own vibrates angrily around on the polished wood of the bedside table.

Will wonders why _he’s_ the one that gets an actual call. Certainly, his phone manners leave more to be desired than Hannibal’s.

Nonetheless, he stretches indulgently and reaches for it only when he’s through, flicks his thumb across the screen to answer. “Jack,” he says with a yawn, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye to grind away the grit.

“Will,” Jack replies, “There’s been—” Will hears a woman’s voice, hushed in the background, that interrupts him. Will waits through the pause of silence, before Jack asks hesitantly, “How are you?”

Will is slightly taken aback. Jack sounds different, less gruff. Almost as if he’s trying to be…friendly.

“I, uh,” Will says, more than a little confused, “I’m fine. Just woke up.” There’s another awkward beat of silence, before Will clears his throat and fills it. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, I...” Jack starts, then hesitates again. Will’s brow furrows at the weirdness of their stilted conversation. “There’s been another body.”

“Oh yeah?” Will asks, then clears his throat—acting surprised seemed like the thing to do on the surface, but upon reflection, why would he be surprised after the last few weeks? “Where?” he asks instead.

Jack makes a gruff noise through the tinny speaker of Will’s phone. “Behind Doctor Bloom’s office,” he replies. “I’ve already spoken to Doctor Lecter,” he goes on, when Will remains silent, “He’s on his way to pick you up.” As if summoned like some sort of terribly handsome demon, Hannibal walks into the bedroom, dressed in a suit such a dark shade of charcoal it looks black in the sparse light spilling through the open curtains, with a salmon-colored shirt beneath.

“Is he, now?” Will asks, arching a brow as he takes Hannibal in. What he’s wearing is far more somber than his usual flashy fare, and it makes him look severe, Will thinks. As his eyes drag over him slowly from head to toe again, and amends that to himself—what he _looks_ , he decides, is hot as _fuck_. His usual garish patterns fit seamlessly into the costume he presents to the world—his person suit, as Will has come to think of it, adding to the persona he’s cultivated of the dashing but eccentric doctor, with his stupid cheekbones and his smoky accent of indecipherable origin.

What he’s wearing now makes him look, to Will, like exactly what he is: dangerous, with sharp edges to slice himself open on. He feels himself sitting up, the covers falling to drape around his waist as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, ready to go to him to do just that. It seems fitting, to see Hannibal like this, considering he’s about to go see exactly what he’s capable of when so moved to perform.

He remembers the last crime scene Hannibal left for him; the way even then he was captivated by the beauty of it. He’s sure that this time will be no different, even if this time the scene was set for someone else besides him.

Will swallows down that flare of jealousy, staring at Hannibal with unknowingly narrowed eyes so hard he nearly misses Jack continue on to say, “We’re both in agreement that, under the circumstances, it would be best if you weren’t out traipsing around on your own.”

“I don’t _traipse_ ,” Will argues weakly, pushing the covers away and climbing to his feet. Hannibal hasn’t moved from the center of the room, where he watches Will with that barely-there smirk on his full lips, his head tilted just so as if mildly intrigued.

“Well,” Jack sighs on the other end of the line, “Whatever it is you do, I don’t need you doing it like David Parker was.” Will’s forehead wrinkles in confusion at the name as he ventures closer to where Hannibal stands. “That was his name, you know—the guy in the alley,” Jack goes on, and adds pointedly, “Whose only crime that we know of was to be traipsing around looking like _you_.”

Will doesn’t have anything to say to that. He crosses the room instead, presses himself up against Hannibal, who wraps his arms around Will immediately and buries his nose in Will’s hair, his chest expanding against Will’s cheek as he breathes him in. He’s fully dressed, and Will is fully naked, and he feels the imbalance keenly both physically and otherwise and finds he doesn’t mind; in fact, he feels quite the _opposite_ of minding. “I think Hannibal is here,” Will says finally to Jack as Hannibal’s fingers trail down his spine, eliciting a shiver from him.

“Good. He knows the address of the crime scene,” Jack replies, and Will almost snorts—yeah, he supposes Hannibal does. “See you both soon,” Jack says, and then hangs up.

Will blindly tosses his phone back in the direction of the bed, and doesn’t care in the least when he hears it fall flat to the floor, too interested instead in rubbing his face against Hannibal’s neck where it meets his freshly-shaven jaw, breathing in the familiar scent of him. It’s animal affection that Hannibal returns, and it doesn’t make Will feel nearly as ridiculous as it should.

“I suppose Doctor Bloom found your invitation,” Will whispers, a little more snarky than he truly means to, and offsets it by kissing Hannibal’s cool skin and then murmuring against it, “ _God,_ you smell so fucking good.”

Hannibal huffs a soft sound of amusement against Will’s temple as one broad hand ventures down the bare skin of his back to his ass, gripping one cheek to tug Will closer so he can feel how much Hannibal wants him. Will is likewise hard already just from this, just from being this close, probably leaking on Hannibal’s immaculate suit, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind. “It would be difficult for her to avoid finding it, I’m afraid,” he replies at length.

“Yeah?” Will asks, nipping at Hannibal’s earlobe. He’s so buttoned up, especially compared to Will himself, that there’s not nearly enough skin exposed for Will to put his mouth on. He bites this time at the shell of Hannibal’s ear and breathes into it, “Why’s that?”

Hannibal sighs at the tease of Will’s teeth. “Placement, mostly,” he replies, “I do hope the more subtle nuances of the message will not be lost in translation.” His other hand comes down to join the first, giving Will a squeeze as he adds, “I put quite a lot of work into it.”

Will thinks of his own message that Hannibal left for him in the woods. _Know me. See me_. He doesn’t growl, because he’s a human being and that would be absurd, but it’s a near thing. He feels a little proud of himself for successfully hiding his ire, for a whole second, until he feels Hannibal’s amusement float through their bond, as light and airy as tinkling bells.

“Hm,” Hannibal murmurs thoughtfully, his voice a throaty rumble as he parts Will’s cheeks, runs a finger between them, a soft groan escaping him when he finds remnants of the mess he left there in the early hours of the morning leaking out of him. “Messy boy,” he murmurs, the words impossibly warm with affection.

Will is still sore, and squirms in Hannibal’s arms, which only seems to delight him more. He forces Will to walk back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he topples over, sprawled across the messy bedclothes. Hannibal stands between his knees, towering over him and looking at him with a vaguely critical eye. “Are you jealous of Doctor Bloom, Will?” he asks, so bluntly that Will jerks in surprise.

“Of course not,” Will shoots back, glaring at him now, daring him to push the subject—which, of course, Hannibal appears to have every intention of doing.

“Of _course_ not,” Hannibal echoes, smiling now. His eyes fall to Will’s cock, which lies hard and curved against his belly. It twitches under Hannibal’s scrutiny—definitely leaking all over the place now. Will watches, wide-eyed, as Hannibal lowers himself gracefully to his knees at the edge of the bed between his spread thighs, freshly-pressed suit and all. He leans in closer, presses a kiss to the inside of Will’s knee, looks up the length of his body to meet his eyes and asks simply, “Why?”

Will trembles as Hannibal’s hands encircle his ankles, then travel up his calves to grip his knees and spread them wider. “I’m not—” he tries to argue, but then Hannibal tests his teeth against the meat of his thigh, eyes still locked on his, and Will’s voice momentarily shatters like glass. He reaches up, digs the heels of his palms into both eyes and says, “I can’t, Hannibal. It’s—it’s too fucked up for words.”

Hannibal reaches up, grasps both of Will’s wrists in one large hand, and pulls them away from his face. Holds them there, clasped and pressed against his chest, as he lowers his head to lick at the crease of Will’s thigh. His breath is cool against the wetness he leaves behind on Will’s skin as he demands in the most casual of voices, “You will try, for me.”

Will laughs and tries to free his wrists, but Hannibal’s grip is unforgiving. “Will I?” he says in challenge, and Hannibal’s smile is foreboding in answer. “Hannibal, we have to go,” Will tries, voice trembling as Hannibal turns his head and drags the flat of his tongue over Will’s balls, then up the length of him, eyes crinkled wickedly at the corners as he laps at the weeping tip. His lips part just barely around it, and Will tries to jerk his hips up to get deeper into that mouth, but the hand holding his wrists captive is unrelenting, shoving him down and keeping him pinned in place. The show of strength sends a thrill through Will that causes more fluid to leak copiously over Hannibal’s lips.

“Speak, Will,” he says, as he draws back just enough to let Will get a good look at the way his lips glisten with it, before licking it away. Will groans at the sight, and groans once more when Hannibal threatens lightly, “Speak, or I will stop.”

Will should _want_ him to stop. They have somewhere they’re supposed to be. But Hannibal’s mouth is so close—that mouth, so dangerous and so exquisite, as capable of tearing him apart as it is capable of _taking_ him apart. “I keep thinking of the man in the woods,” he gasps out before his brain has caught up with his mouth enough to stop the words from escaping, but it’s too late now, “The scene you made for me.”

Hannibal hums, and makes good on his promise. He opens his mouth and sucks him down to the very root of him, until the head of Will’s cock presses harshly against the soft and supple back of his throat. It’s so blissfully cool instead of hot inside of him, unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and Will doesn’t know if he will ever get used to it. He keens, tries again to free his hands, wanting to sink his fingers into Hannibal’s hair to hold him in place, to mess it up from its perfectly arranged style, but Hannibal’s own fingers tighten around his wrists until the bones creak together. Hannibal’s eyes haven’t left his for even a second, and Will knows he hasn’t said enough to satiate his curiosity, just as well as he knows if Hannibal stops he might turn to dust.

His mouth opens on a soft cry, and the truth spills out along with it. “I’m jealous that this scene will be for her,” he whimpers as Hannibal drags his lips up and then sinks down again, tongue and throat working around him, again and again, rhythmic and maddening and so fucking perfect Will could die from it. This time, when he tugs at Hannibal’s grip, it’s just to feel the unmovable strength keep him in place, and he gasps out desperately, “It should— _ah_ , Hannibal, _fuck—_ anything you create should be for me.”

Hannibal hums around him, and Will feels it down to the very core of him and moans, wanton, when he feels the fingers of Hannibal’s other hand pressing against his slick opening. Hannibal pulls off with an obscene, sloppy sound, lifting his head to look up at Will with eyes glimmering and dark. “Everything I do, and will ever do, Will, is for you,” he murmurs, voice rough from the abuse of Will’s cock in his throat. He presses in with two fingers, and Will gasps out a wretched, broken sound as he’s pierced in this way. He’s still wet with lube and Hannibal’s release from early that morning, and it’s an easy slide in up to Hannibal’s knuckles, which bump against the tender, sore rim.

Hannibal’s hair, fallen loose from whatever product he puts in it with the exertion he’s using to render Will into pieces, falls over his brow as he twists his wrist, searching, and finds his prostate unerringly. Will wouldn’t be surprised, considering he _does_ have a medical degree, if he had any room for thought in his head at all. As it is, his head fills up with white noise as Hannibal rubs in slow circles, lowers his head to drag his tongue up the length of Will’s cock and then whispers in a rush of cool breath against his rigid skin, “The message is for her, yes; but I did it because _you_ asked it of me.”

Will wants to object to this—admitting that he did exactly that, and that a man is dead for it across town, seems too much to bear. But Hannibal is his monster, and he is as much Will’s creation as Will is his. If Hannibal had his way, they would be somewhere far away from here by now, and the man whose crime scene they’re meant to be at would still be alive and well and considering his next misadventure. But Will chose him, sent Hannibal off into the night to relieve him of his life. Welcomed his monster with open arms and the cradle of his body when he returned home stained with the dead man’s blood.

Will cries out as Hannibal’s mouth engulfs him again, sucking hard enough that it hollows out his cheeks beneath the high arcs of his cheekbones. His eyes stay on Will, fingers moving in time with the ministrations of his mouth, playing Will’s body as expertly as a master would play his instrument. “ _Hannibal_ ,” Will moans, hips twitching up as much as he’s able to bury himself deeper in the other man’s throat, then pushing down, bearing down on his fingers as they stroke rhythmically inside of him.

Hannibal releases him from his mouth, but his lips linger against him as his fingers keep moving relentlessly, crooked inside him and coaxing him to the edge. “I am yours, Will,” he whispers hoarsely, ardently, “Yours to command. Your dog to call to heel, to bid to _sic.”_

Even with the bond pounding out those three words that underlies everything Hannibal is saying, everything he does, it’s the heady power behind those words that push him over the edge. His cock twitches as his body bears down around Hannibal’s fingers, and he pulses streaks of white over Hannibal’s lips and chin.

Hannibal moves to release Will’s wrists, but he makes a pitiful sound of protest. He likes it, the restraint, the show of undeniable strength, of what Hannibal is capable of and hides beneath the clean lines of his tailored suits. He likes it, because it shows him exactly what he has under his thumb, at his beck and call—whatever part of him that would want to deny that fact has been wrenched out of him along with his orgasm.

Hannibal smiles at him, lazy and pleased, waits until their eyes meet to lick Will’s release from his lips. Will’s head falls back against the rumpled bedclothes with a pitiful groan at the sight, at the thought of tasting himself on Hannibal’s tongue. Remembers everything the man just said and lifts his head again and whispers just to test it, “Come here.”

Hannibal, every bit as obedient as he claims to be, does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first half of an obscenely long chapter that I decided to split here, because the last half is kind of wild even by my standards, which means this chapter is mostly just a transition chapter...with blowjobs? I thought will anyone actually have a problem with that? and decided no, probably not :D
> 
> thank you as always for your words of encouragement, friends. I'm gearing up to spend another nanowrimo with these boys and I really, really fucking need it 😱
> 
> (borrowing this from the last chapter since we never quite made it to any of this, whoops) coming up next: a new murder tableau that is both of the boys' design and all the team sassy science goodness that comes along with the resulting crime scene, jack crawford ft a brand new attitude adjustment, more spooky sappy boys mind/bond-melding, and !!plot!!
> 
> until next time, friends ♡


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